24 Tributes, 24 Wars
by 13ASB
Summary: The 34th Hunger Games arrive with typical fanfare - but in this year's violent testament to a man's iron will, each tribute carries their own burden behind the pageantry of bloodsport. Discover the secret behind the victims and victor of the 34th Games, told through the words of the tributes themselves.
1. Enter the Gamesmaker

_**Author's Note: Hey guys. "24 Tributes, 24 Wars" is a 24/24 collaboration where a number of writers come together to each take over an individual tribute as they're sent into the Hunger Games. This is a reboot of "This is War," an earlier version organized by xXThisIsWarXx which ended up flaming out. Fortunately, a number of writers (including myself) from the first came together to kick the tires and get this story going again.**_

_**The story takes place during the 34**__**th**__** Hunger Games, during President Snow's initial rise to power as the Capitol is still finding its legs a generation after the conclusion of the Dark Days. I'll be posting authors responsible for each chapter at the end of the respective installments, so you can get to know the writers and their tributes as a team. If I don't write an author, that means I wrote it – like with this prologue.**_

_**Hunger Games, Capitol, Snow, etc etc are all intellectual properties of Suzanne Collins. Original characters and ideas are properties of respective writers herein. The original idea of this story's first iteration belongs to xXThisIsWarXx. Original idea of a 24/24 collaboration belongs to the writers of**_**Tears of Blood_, a Hunger Games story. Rated T for violence, language, and assorted themes.  
_**

* * *

**Prologue – Outside the Capitol, 34 Years After the Dark Days**

* * *

There's something poetic about blood on fresh snow.

The bolt from my speargun has pierced the fallen bighorn sheep straight through the throat. Evidence of the kill bleeds out onto the crisp white scenery under my feet, ruining the serenity of this icy, alpine landscape with a fresh coat of crimson. I kick snow off of the bighorn's tawny hide with my steel-toed boot; this is a kill I want to savor. It's picture-perfect; a masterpiece laid onto this picturesque canvas. The Capitol in winter truly has no equal, even with the bitter cold.

"An excellent shot, Protector," a lanky man with short-cropped silver hair strides up behind me, stepping over a rocky outcropping and toting a long, scoped rifle over a bony shoulder. "It died of shock before it fell."

"Isn't it interesting, Atlas?" I say as I stare at the cooling animal corpse. "It tried to run even as it died. People don't do that. Too often our kind simply lay down and die. Accept what comes. The end. There's probably something to that."

"What's to that," Atlas nods at the animal. "Is that you killed the sheep, sir."

"I'm thinking too much," I mutter. Ultimately, Atlas is right. There's no thought to killing. You pull the trigger – bam, dead. You forget, you move on. One lives, one dies. Nobody remembers the dead.

There's an event the Capitol holds every year in a memorial for our dead during the rebellion of the districts, called the Hunger Games. Bizarrely, to remember our losses against the rebels, we take 24 of their children and kill 23. But even in that, we remember the victor – bathe him or her in riches, set them for life as a celebrity among our vapid, appearance-obsessed citizenry. No one remembers the 23 kids who die at the end of a sword or spear or fall to dehydration. They're just casualties in the end, paying the price for entertainment.

It's not my place to question that system, I suppose. I'm not involved, after all – I simply command the Capitol's military power. No Hunger Games for me.

As my sergeant-at-arms, Atlas keeps me grounded. I'm not celebrated as some great hero like the Gamesmakers of the Games, or the nascent President Snow (who I'm not sure I even trust yet. A 36 year-old president? I'm skeptical.) Instead, I do my work in solitude and quiet. I ensure that my soldiers, the Centurions, don't get out of line and that the districts do what we need. I keep an eye on the Peacekeepers – who really ought to be under my control.

I don't kill kids, however.

"Do you plan on keeping it, sir?" Atlas scoops the bolt out of the bighorn's neck, wiping the warm blood on the snow before pocketing the ammunition in his leather bandolier. "A fine specimen."

"No," I say, looking down at the kill. It _is_ a good kill…but what would I do with that? "No, I'll let some other beast have an easy dinner. No doubt one of them deserves it."

"Easy dinners breed complacency," Atlas points out. "I doubt the districts would complain to an easy dinner. Is there a difference?"

"Of course, th – " I stop mid-word. Is there a difference between beast and district? After all, we in the Capitol hardly view the districts and the plebeians who inhabit them as _people_. They're tools. Cogs in the machine. "If they got an easy dinner, the districts would come to rely on it. That's how we spark revolts."

"You could say the opposite as well, sir," Atlas squints as he looks away, the alpine sun cresting over the mountains and reflecting off his dull brown eyes. "Too little, and you give them nothing to lose."

"I suppose I won't be president any time soon," I slap him on the shoulder with a grin. "Boo-hoo."

I'm about to propose we head back to our ground car parked a mile away in the mountains when the abrupt arrival of a loud noise interrupts me. A soft _thump-thump-thump_ rapidly grows into a roar as snow whips into a cyclone of white powder. It's not a hovercraft as I first think – contrary to what many of the districts think, we're not actually loaded with hovercraft. The great black bird descending now glides in not on thrusters but on rotors that spin like a tornado.

The falcon-like helicopter spots us and banks, forcing Atlas and I back from the howling gusts of its rotors as it comes in for a landing. A man dressed entirely in white battle armor hops out of the passenger hold, vaulting off a mounted railgun as he instantly camouflages into the bleached surroundings.

I'll give the Peacekeepers credit: In the snow, they're virtually invisible.

Not like that _entrance_ was invisible, given that the helicopter gave Atlas and I at least a good minute of warning. The Peacekeeper striding up to me as if he owns the world is all too familiar, however – the strut in his hips and shoulders, the long face with the high cheekbones, the coal-black eyes that radiate an intense hatred of everything alive or dead. Those grotesque, inhuman eyes scan over the bighorn corpse as the Peacekeeper steps over the animal, kicking it in the head with the back of a rubber-soled boot as he does so.

The man, Agrius, is the Chieftain of the Peacekeepers – and by proxy, my personal rival. We don't get along.

"Protector Benedict Nomos," Agrius spits, his mouth hardly moving as he speaks the words slowly. His angular, misshapen face looks even icier than our surroundings here high in the snowy mountains; his eyes appraising me with a chilly bitterness. "There has been an…_accident_."

"I take it you're used to those," I mutter.

It takes all of Agrius's self-control to not step up to my insult. I'm rather impressed by the way his face contorts as he soldiers on: "Head Gamesmaker Horme is dead. President Snow requests you at once."

"Dead?" I raise an eyebrow. I never liked the man, but that's an…interesting coincidence, seeing that Snow didn't like him either. "How did he die?"

"It doesn't matter," Agrius quickly rebuffs my question, spit flying from his mouth into the snow. "President Snow demands your presence immediately."

"I suppose it's better not to have faith in investigations from your organization," I say before Atlas can smooth things out.

Agrius snarls the answer I want: "He was poisoned. My men have seized his assets and close associates and are interrogating them as we speak. This is none of the _military_'_s _concern."

I snigger insane. By "interrogating," he means that most, if not all, are already dead. The Peacekeepers have a way with brutality, typically involving knives, electroshock machines, and acid drips onto raw skin. I've seen a few "interrogations" myself; the most recent being a harvester from District 11 Agrius was convinced had been plotting an insurrection in the district. I, on the other hand, figure they vivisected an innocent man. Either way, it's in the past now. It's not the _military's_ concern, right?

Perhaps our concern isn't existing as a paranoid secret police body, either.

"Very well," I sigh melodramatically. "What does the President want me for?"

Agrius's answer is far more chilling than the coldest wind here on the mountain: "He has already announced his decision on live media. You are to be the next Head Gamesmaker for the 34th Hunger Games. We leave at once."

_Blood in the snow_.


	2. Two Paths Cross: District 1's Reaping

_One daughter forced before her time to go,_

_One son betrayed by whom he used to know._

_District 1's tributes walk the same path, but share not the same light.  
_

* * *

**District 1** **| The Reaping of Abilee Wilkin**

* * *

My alarm buzzes at exactly 7:15 a.m. like it has every day of my life. Usually I wake up feeling refreshed, but today I'm feeling a little faint.

Mama says it's safer here than it was in District 3, but nothing she says can quell the raging feeling I have in the pit of my stomach on the one day that happens approximately every 365.25 days. Reaping day.

I dress myself carefully, and for once I force a brush through my mangled dirty blond waves. My Nana always told me that I was the most beautiful girl in the world, but I never believed it. Maybe I could be pretty, I am tall, and have long hair, but it's always frizzed out. I don't usually notice myself, but nothing gets by my peers. My large eyes and long eyelashes should be attributes of an attractive face, but I do not hold it well. My mother once scolded me as a child for looking like "a deer caught in the headlights" or for not paying attention. My father would scold me for not listening to him. I don't remember those days, but my mother has told me that nobody ever expected me to follow in their steps.

My parents are two of the brightest minds in Panem, that's why we were relocated here in District 1, as it is the closest district to the beloved Capitol and they were needed to execute specific work there. I never really fit in with my peers at District 3, but at least there my quirkiness was tolerated. In District 1, there is no shortage of nasty girls, and boys who have a bit of a superiority complex, especially the ones who are Hunger Games volunteers and proud of it. Here in District 1 my peers are just dying, pun not intended, to be in the Games.

That's why today, reaping day, I should be feeling safer. Reaping day at home meant multiple panic attacks throughout the day, my mother having to calm me, and at least three knitted scarves that I made while trying to calm my fear.

I traipse out to our kitchen where breakfast sits on the table; oatmeal with raisins, and peanut butter toast. It's a treat from my mother to me on reaping day. Peanut butter is one of my favorite foods, and one of the harder products to find on the store shelves, and if you can it'll cost you most of your week's paycheck.

"Thank you, Mother," I say quietly and she smiles back at me. She knows that I am entirely grateful even if I have trouble expressing my feelings to others. I'm always appreciative of what my mother and father have done for me and all the support they've given me even if I am thought of as a "weird daughter" as some of their coworkers have put it.

Mama and Father chat idly over breakfast about their lab work for today. I am quiet, but that's nothing new. I mostly live in my head, and hardly ever speak a word, but right now I desperately need to ask my mother a question.

I meekly clear my throat and make eye contact with my mom. I scoot around restlessly and finally she notices and addresses me.

"What is it Abi dear?"

"I was wondering if I'd be allowed to stay home from school today."

My mother contemplates my question carefully.

"I'm going to say no, but only because you have nothing to worry about dear. If you're name happens to be drawn, you know there will be someone to take you place."

I lose my appetite right away, but finish off my toast anyways, as to not anger my mother. Then I excuse myself and run to my room where I can be safer. I hug my knees into my chest, and bury my head. If I were an animal, I would want to be a turtle just so I had someplace to hide when I was afraid.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I untangle myself from my fetal position and pick up the knitting that's sitting on my bedside table. I'm working on an afghan for my Nana. She is at one of the nicest hospitals in Panem on the outskirts of District 1. This was another reason why we moved. My parents are close to the Capitol, and my Nana is in good hands.

My Nana is my mother's mother, and the most important person in my life. Only in her company can I talk and talk without judgment from her. It's always been easier for me to speak. She watched me while I was a child and my parents were at the Capitol working on whatever technology was in the works at the time. My grandmother always believed in me, especially when my parents thought I was some kind of mental child that needed special care. Thanks to her my real potential emerged. Luckily the only child of two bright minds inherited their genes. My precision and knowledge of science is one that is unmatched, and I've put many devices together without a second thought. The Capitol has some plans for the Wilkin's daughter, they just don't quite know the baggage I'll be carrying with me in whatever work environment I land it. I surely shut all my critics' mouths though.

I enjoy helping out my parents. As I mentioned before they've done a lot for me, and have "spoiled" my unnatural behaviors, once again this is according to their coworkers.

I like the sound of the way the knitting needles click each time they intercept paths.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

It's a steady rhythm, one that is planned and controlled, with equal intervals between each click.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

"Abilee." My mother knocks softly on my door.

"Yes?"

"It's time for school."

I place my shoes on and exit my safe house. My mother places her palm on my back and leads me out the door. Her touch is comforting and I'm feeling okay about going to school.

At least I was.

As soon as I touch my feet to the hallway floor I hear the word Hunger Games over and over. It's like some kind of celebration, and between the constant noise, and the content of their yelling voices I feel like I'm going to have a breakdown. I bolt into my classroom immediately. I never understood why I had to come here. I am literate, and my IQ is way above average. However, the Capitol still forces me to attend school to learn about such topics as Panem History, and whatnot, where they cram propaganda in my head.

Unfortunately as soon as I enter the classroom, my peace is interrupted by this year's volunteers and their cheering squad. I try to squash myself as far back in my chair as I can in hopes that I may become part of the furniture and disappear from this nightmare.

Arion and Opal.

The boy is tall and built like the typical career. He's also arrogant, overly confident, and the topic of most of my female peers. Arion is in every single one of my classes and so throughout the day I must deal with his pride.

"Hey Abi," he nods to me in greeting, and I squish back into my seat.

He's never muttered a word to me, but decides to be friendly today. I don't understand. His friends must have bet him to greet the weird girl to add to today's happiness. Why are people so cruel?

When I don't answer he shrugs his shoulders and takes a seat next to his soon-to-be district partner. I know nothing about Opal, except that her family has money. She's quiet, like me, but it's more of an intimidating quiet that keeps others away.

Luckily the drone of my teachers keeps me from having a mental breakdown. I sit in the back and doodle in my notebook. The sound of the pen scribbling against paper gives me the impression that I do have control over my life. I can control this pen, and therefore I can control my destiny.

As soon as I get home I find a snack sitting on the table and once I finish eating I climb out of my clothes and into the bath. This is the reaping tradition of my house, which runs on routines. Routines keep our world moving in a perfect orbit, or that's what my father has said before and I'm not going to argue with that.

Mother has set out my usual reaping outfit. It's my favorite dress, light blue like the morning sky. It's strapless, so I pull a white cardigan over. I smooth over my clothes in an orderly fashion to remove any excess wrinkles that may be leftover even after ironing.

My mother does my hair, as she has always done. I think she is the only person who can tame the mess on my head, and she tops it off with a headband.

She pulls me into a hug, usually there are tears, but she knows I'm going to be safe. I just wish I knew that too.

I grip her hand as we walk over to the square. There are many girls wearing exquisite dresses and dotted with jewels and gemstones. My plainness makes me stick out like a sore thumb. The only thing adorning my wrist is my lucky bracelet. It's wide, and covers my whole wrist. It's made of almost one-hundred percent iron. Iron is the most useful element on Earth and it's hard to extract it in its purest form and so it's covered by a protective film to keep away corrosion. Most people laugh at my silly bracelet, but it's been good luck for me so far.

Mama kisses me on the cheek and sends me off towards the check-in stand. This is the worse part of the reaping. They use an electric device to prick your finger and take your blood just to be sure it's you that's signing in for yourself and not somebody else. Nobody gets out of the reaping and the Capitol makes sure of that.

"Next!" A Peacekeeper yells and I snap out of my thoughts and realize I'm next. I hurry to the table, and she sighs in frustration as she grasps my hand roughly.

"Name?" She asks bluntly.

"Abilee Wilkin," I practically whisper.

"What? Speak up!" She commands.

"Abilee," my voice cracks, "Wilkin."

She turns to the page where there's a spot reserved with my name. Then she moves the small device over my finger.

I sing to myself and squeeze my eyes shut. The Peacekeeper clicks a button and a sharp needle pierces through my skin. She rubs my hand roughly under my name and then scans it. My DNA matches the system as Abilee Wilkin and she shoos me away.

I look at my blood and cringe, wiping it on the underside of my dress. I can deal with blood, but seeing my own makes me feel faint.

I make my way towards the front where the older children stand. I am practically near the front. Nobody looks at me as I file my way in, and I take observation of my surroundings.

The atmosphere is different here than it was in District 3. Here everybody chats good-naturedly. The little children are not crying and instead running rampant around the aisles until a Peacekeeper yells and they go back to their designated areas. The girls next to me are talking about going shopping, and how cute Arion is.

Before I know it our escort is prancing towards the stage and bouncing up their stairs like a ball of happiness.

She leans into the microphone and flashes her brightest smile.

"Hello District 1, as you know my name is Sunshine Pana, and I am District 1's escort! I am so happy to be here again, and I know my fellow escorts are just as jealous," she laughs merrily into the microphone.

She is quite the peculiar character. Her hair is dyed a bright yellow, like the sun. Her outfit is a bright yellow metallic-like dress dotted with sequins. Looking at her makes my eyes hurt.

"So first I bring you all a video from our wonderful Capitol."

The video is the same here in District 1 as it was in 3.

_War. Terrible war._

I can't pay attention and I make use of myself by straightening out the little wrinkles that have formed in my dress from the walk over here. I redo my sash into a perfect bow, although it is hard without Mother to help. I look around and see only a few eyes glued to the screen. Most are whispering to one another. I catch Arion not too far away. His arms are crossed over his chest and he stares up at the screen. If he is nervous to volunteer, he doesn't show it.

I can even catch Opal, who is standing a few rows ahead of me. She looks up at the screen and then down to her feet while shuffling back and forth. It doesn't take a high IQ to see she is in fact nervous. She has to volunteer though. It has to be the rule or something, because I know District 1 trains hard to receive the volunteer spot, and to give it up would be a huge dishonor.

"Wasn't that just wonderful?" I am brought back into reality again by little Miss Sunshine. "It just reminds us what we've all gathered here for." She flashes another brilliant smile, and adjusts her hair, or wig, I'm not sure which it is.

"Now it's time to pick this year's tributes, although I expect it will be redundant. I've heard we have some courageous young people volunteering this year! That's not much of a surprise though." She winks to the crowd and then claps her hands together in excitement. "Ladies first!"

I swallow the lump that's forming in my throat and watch Sunshine meander to the female bowl, clicking her heels against the wooden stage with every step. I feel my palms begin to sweat and I ignore the urge to wipe them on my nicest dress.

It's not going to be me. I try to remind myself of this fact and stay calm and under control. Mother is the smartest woman I know and she said I wouldn't be picked.

She snatches a slip from the top and trots back to the microphone. She slowly opens the paper and holds the slip up to the sunlight. Then she folds it back up and leans into the microphone.

"Abilee Wilkin!"

No, no, no! This can't be right. I feel my body breaking under this new weight that has been laid upon my shoulders. But…no I won't be going to the Capitol, Opal will volunteer for me, it'll be okay. It'll be okay, I repeat it over and over in order to keep my feet steady on the ground.

However, I wait for Opal's words "I volunteer" and instead I am met with silence. A few of her friends look over at her and she just stares at her feet, pretending she doesn't exist.

"This is a surprise," Sunshine comments. "Where's our volunteer?"

I watch Opal turn and try to walk through the crowd. She passes right by me and looks me right in the eye. She bites her lip nervously and quickly looks away.

"Abilee?" Sunshine calls again.

Tears are streaming down my face and I have no way of stopping them. I make my way up to the stage, feeling as though I am having an out-of-body experience. When I blink back into reality I'm standing on the stage and Sunshine has her arm around me. I wipe the stray tears from my face and try to put on a façade. It's no use though because I'm shaking like a leaf in the middle of a hurricane, being ripped apart piece by piece.

"Now for our boys!" Sunshine goes through the same routine. She walks slowly to the bowl, plucks the slip from the top and walks back to the microphone.

If I just focus on something else I won't have a panic attack.

She's opening each side of the slip. She's holding it up to the light to read it. She's lowering it down. She's leaning into the microphone.

"Our male tribute is Alexan…" she doesn't even finish the boy's first name when Arion is shouting that he volunteers and prances up the stairs to the stage.

"Now that's more like it!" Sunshine comments and pats him on the back.

"Now shake hands both of you."

I hate shaking the hand of a stranger. It's a practice I do not participate in and I'm not going to do it now. Arion holds his hand out and I stand still as stone waiting for him to get the hint. It's an awkward few seconds and I pull an Opal and stare at my feet.

"Okay then," he shrugs, and the crowd lets out an "Ooooh…"

They think I'm being "tough" or something, but I'm anything but that. I am not trying to be impolite towards Arion because I'm sure he could rip me apart easily. I can't change the way I am to fit everyone's standards, and I won't now just because I was reaped and am on live television.

Oh no! I am on live television.

I feel like I'm about to throw up, but I am saved by Sunshine who whisks us away into the Justice Building where I am separated from Arion and left in a room by myself. I take my first easy breath and then once I've composed myself I cry. I let tears stream down my face, and make little sobbing noises that I know sound pathetic. The problem is that I am going to die. I have little chance to begin with, approximately 4.17%, but if you factor in the strength and training of some of the other tributes that drops even lower.

My mother and father appear in the doorway just as I start to come down from my breakdown. I want to rush to them and have them make everything better, but I know that isn't going to be the case this time. Mama comes to me and grasps me in her arms.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry baby," she whispers softly in my ear.

My father, as always, stands stoic, but as soon as my mother releases me he grabs me into his arms in a gesture that my father has never given to me before.

He pulls away and goes to stand next to my mother, who is trying to hold back her tears. My mother and father were never emotional people. It seems to be a trait that was prominent in District 3. Seeing my mother unable to control her emotions makes me feel extremely weak.

I wish I could communicate properly with my own parents and let them know how much they've meant to me, and how I love them so. My mother and father were there for me when everybody turned their back on the strange little girl who mumbled and hid up in trees. When I went against all standards for the other children my age, my parents forced them to accept me as I was. Little did everyone else know that I was going to be one of smartest children in Panem, but not without the repercussions that followed.

I can barely manage in the real world, now I will be shown off to the nation as a tribute, and not just any tribute, but a tribute from District 1. District 1 is known for its Careers and magnificent tributes, but I am just Abilee, who can take things apart and put them together with my eyes closed and has crazy hair.

I think of my Nana who is lying in the hospital soon to die. What did she always say to me?

_Accept who you are Abi, even if nobody else will._

I miss her more than anything, and wish she could be here right now. My Nana is the only person who can raise me back up when I am feeling so low. She would sit me in her rocking chair when I was only a few years old and read me fabulous stories from books she had collected over the years. It was my Nana who made me realize my true potential was on this planet.

"Time's up!" A Peacekeeper snaps.

It looks as though I'll never be able to see that potential through.

I run to my mother and father and hug them both. I cannot remember a time I have ever worked up courage to initiate human contact, but I cannot remember a time where I was going off to face my inevitable death.

"I love you," I breathe and my mother runs her hand through my hair.

"Time!" The Peacekeeper yells louder.

"We love you dear," my mother says, "and we have faith that you'll come back to us."

Honestly though I have no chance against the other tributes. I cannot survive in a "kill or be killed" competition. If I am to find meaning on this planet it will have to be in the next few weeks. My first step though is to survive being shown off to the millions of citizens who watch me in the tribute parade. No, scratch that, I'll need to survive the train ride to the Capitol with Arion without throwing up before that happens.

I hope they can provide me with some string and knitting needles first.

Click. Click. Click. I am in control. I can control my destiny.

* * *

**District 1 | The Reaping of Arion Everex**

* * *

"You want another cup?"

My head snaps up at lightning speed. "Huh?"

Halley, the manager of the training center snack booth, flicks her eyes to the coffee pot in her hand. "You keep falling asleep. Want another cup?" Remembering why I'm awake in the first place, I groan, letting my head fall back onto the countertop.

Reaping practice.

It's customary for the District 1 volunteers to pull an all-nighter, stuffing in whatever training they can the morning before they step forth. It's what our first victor did, and his successor after that, and his successor after _that_…Halley has agreed to stay up to keep me energized. You'd think I'd be somewhat happy—based on the "great honor" and whatnot—but honestly? As this year's volunteer, all I feel is tired. The impending rush of victory you're supposed to have has been replaced by a sudden urge to curl up in a ball.

"Sure," I mumble sleepily. My hand flies up to wipe the drool from my mouth. "What time is it, anyway?"

The cup scoots across the granite with a scrape. "3:15," Halley says. I groan again, taking a sip. It tastes rich, like she's added chocolate or something. I down it and wait for the buzz to kick in. "Man, I hate this."

"Think I like it any better?" She gripes, wiping her face with the back of her hand. My gaze falls on the dark circles under her eyes.

"Sorry," I say, looking sheepishly down at my feet. "I'll only be up for a while longer. You can go to bed if you want." Thinking she'd jump at the offer, I'm confused when she shakes her head. "Nah. Probably couldn't sleep much."

When I give her a quizzical look, she hesitantly clears her throat. "My sister's got her name in this year."

_Oh_. Well, that explains it: Halley's 19, and her sister turned twelve not even a week ago. I guess once you're safe, your worry shifts to the next loved one in line. I wouldn't know, being an only child and all.

Cautiously, I lean over the counter, placing my hand on her shoulder the way my mother used to do to comfort me. "Hey, you've got nothing to worry about. Volunteers, remember?"

Volunteering is so important in our district that we've yet to allow a reaped tribute to compete. Someone always edges in to take their place, regardless of age or ability. In other districts, I've heard volunteering protocol is rusty, but here, it's crystal clear: we have volunteering down to a T. 6 months before the reaping, the training center pulls the 5 most exceptional male and female students from each year to participate in a training class. They study things like stamina, accuracy, and improvement, pool all the future tributes together, and rank them in numerical order. The top 10 advance to the second stage, which consists of a vote among the students, trainer recommendations, and a private session with the overall head of the training center, who then chooses the male and female tribute worthy enough to volunteer.

To step up and volunteer without being chosen is suicide: no one wants to sponsor some insolent, glory-stealing punk. To refuse after making it that far…well, you'd have to be crazy.

I squeeze her shoulder, which seems to relax her a bit. "Opal and I have got this." As if on cue, Opal Asteria, my girlfriend and soon-to-be district partner, sidles out from the shadows of a training room. The spear in her hand—she's the only girl my age skilled with them—glints in the unnatural light.

"Hey, baby," I smirk in greeting, leaning back against the counter as she walks up. Opal's a typical career girl: strong arms, strong legs, and strong willed. She's also naturally pretty, a trait that draws sponsors to her like moths to a flame. If the Hunger Games were a beauty contest, they'd need to crown us both. One way or another, District 1 will emerge victorious this year…as if there was any doubt about that.

"Dang," I say as she reaches for a towel. "Sweaty sure looks good on you."

She wrinkles her nose, wiping her forehead angrily. "Shut up, Arion." She tries to scowl at me, but to no avail: one smile from me cracks her mask.

After two cups of coffee, three energy bars, and a 5-minute power nap later, we head back to the gym for the remainder of the night. We budget the next few hours carefully: one for swords, one for spears, one for knives…and, despite my objections, one for talking.

"Why are you volunteering?" she asks, plopping down on the mat next to me. It's an innocent enough question, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, like dry swallowing a pill.

"I think we should work on hand-to-hand," I say, unsteadily attempting to change the subject. My past is something I'd rather not talk about, especially with Opal. Our relationship is more shallow than anything—she sees what she wants to, listens to what she's told about me, and that's the end of that.

Thinking about it now, she's really more of a district partner than a girlfriend. Usually, we just end up talking strategy, no matter how much effort we put into flirting. Throw a kiss in there every once in a while and there you have it—Arion and Opal, perfectly described.

However superficial, that's the gist of it: two pretty faces thrown together based off of no real depth, trust, or knowledge of each other. Two pretty faces influenced by the majority vote. Two pretty faces, watching each other's backs as they prepare for the nightmare.

Regardless of this, she gives me an aggravated look, nagging me like one of my friends would. "Arion."

I stand, cracking my knuckles as I turn away. "Really, my chokeholds have been off lately. Let's spar." Opal jumps from the mat, seizing my wrist with an iron grip. "Arion…"

_My parents were both victors, did you know that?_

Opal's eyes are wide, filled with a curious understanding. It's unsettling, to be honest. It makes me want to unhinge my jaw and just start babbling, a feeling foreign to me. As far as I know, Opal's not one to judge, but looking weak isn't on my to-do list. I play out the conversation in my head instead.

_Two of the favorites in the Capitol, President Snow asked them to return as mentors for the first Quarter Quell. Although the games were a success, the train derailed on the trip home, killing them both instantly._

Despite my best efforts, my words have risen to the tip of my tongue, threatening to spill over. I try vainly to swallow them back down, attempting to keep my face blank as she looks on impatiently.

_I'm here for them. They've trained me since I could walk, taught me everything I know, supported me through everything…I'm here for them._

Finally, I clear my throat. "Just bringin' honor to my district, that's all."

Opal's face falls a bit. "Hm," she says, looking expectantly at me. "I can tell there's more," she starts, "but that's alright. I'll figure you out eventually." She winks, and I take the cue to reach out and intertwine our fingers.

Someday, I'll tell her, when we're closer than where we are now. Too bad we don't have much longer…

"Sorry, Op," I say, squeezing her hand. "It's kinda complicated. Maybe in the arena?"

The effect is immediate: all the blood drains from her face, leaving her skin a thin, papery white. She tries quickly to reclaim herself, but not before I notice: _what_was_that?_

"You okay?" I ask, warily raising an eyebrow. She nods shakily, giving me a reassuring smile. It looks more like a grimace. "Just fine. C-can't wait." Before I can open my mouth, she starts stretching in an attempt to distract me. "So, were we gonna spar or what?"

"Are they asleep?"

I look up, wiping lazily at my face. "Huh?"

With fuzzy eyes, I take inventory of my surroundings: the majority of the students are training, Opal's asleep on a gymnastics mat next to me, and a group of 12 year olds stands at my feet, eagerly holding their weapons.

I slam my eyes shut, hoping if I lay still enough they'll go away. "Can we watch you train?" One asks, cutting through the silence. "I'm napping," I grumble, turning over on my side. "Leavemealone." The sound of their little footsteps tells me I've won.

I'd almost fallen asleep again when from somewhere above us, a speaker crackles to life.

"Good morning, future tributes!"

I open my eyes, stretching idly. Opal pushes herself to a sitting position next to me, both of us still lingering in a post-sleep haze.

"On behalf of District 1, The Panem Academy of Combat Education, and the PACE Tribute Training Center, we'd like to congratulate this year's volunteers, Arion Everex and Opal Asteria!"

A rapid rush of applause floods the gym, filling my veins with adrenaline. I stand, smile, and wave at everyone looking in my direction, wondering if this is how it feels to be a victor. I beat my chest, pump my fists, blow kisses—really, this is great! I turn to Opal and find she's returned to her bloodless, pale self.

"We would like to inform you that the current time is 7:30, which means the reaping begins in exactly two and a half hours. This morning, attendance at The Panem Academy of District 1 is mandatory. Please get ready accordingly and prepare to meet your peers in the square at the close of the school day. Good luck to our volunteers, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" The voice dies down, and every student in the gym drops whatever they're doing to run like madmen for the elevator.

I choose the stairs to avoid the line, taking them three at a time. I arrive on my floor and make my way down the hall, where I've lived for the past 8 years. It's strange to think I'll be leaving today.

After a quick hand scan, I enter my room, 421. The Tribute Training Center dorms are nothing special, but they're home. Each apartment has a living room, bedroom, half bath and a kitchenette, equipped with the same standard government-issue furniture. I've lived with the same roommates since arriving here, Logan Spinel and Zirconia Ryder, who we just call Arco. We're treated really well here, like it's a hotel instead of a house: meals are free, education is free, rent is free. The only downside is whatever mess we make, we clean ourselves—my roommates have left the chore to me today.

As I walk in, I take inventory: neither of them are here, all of the beds are torn apart, and an ocean of leftovers floods the countertop. _How considerate_. I snack quietly on an apple as I clean, enjoying the silence.

In the bathroom, I take a five-minute shower in boiling water. I'm short on time, so I decide to let my hair air dry. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and shoot myself a winning smile in the mirror, practicing the way I'll look as I take the stage. Arrogant? Nah. Confident? Definitely.

I pull on my school clothes, a pair of faded jeans and a black t-shirt. I throw my bag over my shoulder and start for the elevator—Opal's floor is the one below mine, and I want to spend as much time as I can with her before the reaping.

She answers when I knock, stepping timidly out into the hallway. We link hands without any thought. "You look pretty," I say sweetly, but to no avail. My attempt to fill the silence is useless: she manages a smile, but doesn't say anything further. Guess she's just not talkative today.

When we get outside, the weather surprises me. The sky is barely a whisper of blue, the sun shining at just room temperature. It's warm, but cool at the same time, a different rush of sensations—perfect weather for the last day in my district.

No one says anything until we get about three blocks from school, when Opal finally opens her mouth.

"So," she breathes, kicking a rock with her toe. "Today's the day." I turn to look at her, trying to guess where's she's coming from. "Yeah, Op. Sure is."

A wave of shivers runs over her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. As intimidating as she may be, right now, she looks anything _but._"You sure you're ready?" I ask, though I already know the answer: the skepticism in my voice is plain as the nose on my face.

Noticing me staring, Opal tries to compose herself. "Yeah," she says, sucking in a measured breath. "Yeah. I'm…I'm ready." She can say it all she wants, but I won't believe it. I've seen the crack in her mask.

"We'll be okay, you know." She looks worriedly up at me, probably wondering if I can read her mind. "You and me, we make a good team." She nods silently, wrapping her arms around my waist in a hug. "I love you, Arion," she whispers, resting her head on my chest.

In answer, I kiss the top of her head, taking her hand and leading her up to the school. The mob starts as soon as we set foot onto the grounds.

"Arion! Opal! Over here!"

Swarms of people, from all classes and all ages, drop whatever it is they're doing to meet Opal and I at the door. A few brave girls reach out to feel my muscles, and several guys pat me on the back, shouting nonsense like "you've got this" and "I'm rooting for you." It's all a bit crazy, the effect we have on our classmates. Like volunteering makes you a celebrity. It's frivolous, outrageous, and unnecessary.

Just the way I like it.

I shoot the crowd a grin and am met with giggling in return. "Let's go in," I say, turning to look at Opal. I hold my hand out and she takes it, albeit reluctantly. Someone holds the door for us.

"How'd you get so strong?" "Can I hold your bag?" "What's your strategy, Arion?" "Would you take me on a date when you get back?" The mindless chatter accompanies me all the way to my first class, Panem History. Upon entering, I scan the room for girls out of habit—old routines are hard to break. None really catch my eye except for one: Abi Wilkin, the genius' daughter.

I stare somewhat critically at her, hoping neither her nor Opal's noticed. She could be pretty…you know, if she owned a hairbrush. She's blonde-haired, brown-eyed, and fair-skinned, all attributes of an attractive girl, but there's something about her that makes you steer clear. Something…off. She's in all of my classes, though, so I make an effort to keep on good terms with her.

"Hey Abi," I say as I walk up. The effect is instantaneous—she shrinks back in her seat, too nervous to talk. She totally wants me.

When I receive nothing in response, I shrug it off and take a seat. Yeah, she's a doll, but no sweat off my back. Opal seats herself next to me as the lecture starts.

I find myself passing notes with the flirtier of my admirers all period instead of listening: if I'm going to be volunteering for the Hunger Games, might as well spend my last day doing what I do best.

After the bell, I walk Opal home before going to get ready myself. I don't need to prep the way she does, so I spar with a trainer until the clock reads 15 minutes to 10. Even then, I don't have much to do—just change my clothes, wash my face, and run my fingers through my hair. Dressed in a black suit with a gleaming silver tie, I decide I'm about as ready as I'll ever be and head down to Opal's room.

When she answers the door, I'm actually speechless. Having never seen her outside of her training clothes, I can't help but stare; she's got on some strapless dress, the top half studded with gemstones and the bottom like a layer of cotton candy.

"Wow." I say, and she shoves my shoulder playfully. "Wow yourself," she grins approvingly, taking my hand and leading me down the hallway and out the front door.

We start the 10 minute walk down to the square, thanking everyone who congratulates us along the way. As soon as we arrive, Opal breaks away and clears her throat. "Hey, I'm gonna go…say goodbye to my parents. I'll meet you onstage, okay?" Before I have time to object, she kisses my cheek and runs off towards the sidelines.

Not wanting to stand there alone, I say hi to a couple people before making my way to the check-in station. A group of Peacekeepers waits at the head of a long line of teenagers, wearing rigid expressions as the line slowly trudges along. When I arrive at the front, the woman seated at the table looks more than happy to see me. Typical.

"Hello, handsome! Can I get your name?"

I straighten up, tilting my head cockily. "Arion Everex."

She reaches out to grab my hand, her touch cold, scaly and alien. "This'll only hurt a little," she says in a mild voice. I've heard it every year—it must be protocol—but to be honest, it hurts a lot. I watch as the needle pricks the tip of my finger, dying the tip crimson. Her hands flip nimbly through a book of names until she finds mine halfway down the page. Shifting her grip, she moves the blood under a scanner until it beeps with the knowledge that I am indeed Arion Everex.

She releases her hold on me and gives what's meant to be a flirtatious smile. "Congratulations! Good luck!" I nod to her and make my way over to the section of seventeens, where my roommates, friends, and admirers alike will be waiting for me. I suck idly on my finger until it stops bleeding.

I stare around the square, taking it all in for the last time. There's a giant group of girls just to my left—my name pops up at least three times in five minutes. Children run around my feet, my friends hoot and shout next to me, the parents of my classmates eye their sons and daughters from the sidelines. My attention goes subconsciously to the stage. If my parents were here, they'd be up there now in the folding chairs reserved for mentors.

As this year's mentor—some guy named Marcus I can't place—takes his seat, I wonder if my parents would be proud of me. Sometimes, the Capitol reaps the children of victors just to stir things up, but one's never volunteered. This is unchartered territory, a thought that _almost_makes me nervous.

The district escort, one I've seen a couple times before, starts the trot up to the stage. As far as Capitol citizens go, she's one of the weirder ones: her blinding smile is rivaled only by the blinding yellow of her hair. "Hello, District 1! As you know, my name is Sunshine Pana, and I am District 1's escort! I am so happy to be here again, and I know my fellow escorts are just as jealous." Her laugh echoes through the microphone, reaching such a high pitch that I actually have to cover my ears.

"So first, before we get the ball rolling, I've brought you all a video from our wonderful Capitol."

I've seen it so many times, I can quote it in my sleep. _War, terrible war. Widows, orphans, a motherless child_…I cross my arms and stare at the screen while my mind wanders elsewhere.

This year is the 34th annual Hunger Games. Twenty-four children are reaped each year, which means in total, 782 kids have died since the rebellion. The number rolls around in my head, sending a series of shivers up my spines. 782…782 finished futures, 782 broken dreams, 782 priceless losses. _I won't be one of them,_I think, looking up at the skulls on the monitor. _I won't be one of them._

"Wasn't that just wonderful?" The shrill suddenness of Sunshine's voice makes me jump, bringing me back to reality. She clears her throat and continues, staring out at the masses with an eerie excitement. "It just reminds us what we've all gathered here for." Her hands fly up to touch her hair, fixing it for the cameras. I've never understood why Capitol people care so much for appearance.

"Now it's time to pick this year's tributes, although I expect it will be redundant—I've heard we have some courageous young people volunteering this year!" She starts clapping and is joined by a few lone members of the crowd. I swear, in that second, all eyes in the square turn to me.

"Ladies first!" She announces, bouncing perkily to the female reaping ball. Her hand dives in, as elegant as a swan, and before I know it she's pulled a slip and is smoothing it out.

My gaze falls eagerly on Opal, who's standing near the front. Expecting to see her on her toes, ready to run, I'm surprised to see her clenching her fists and closing her eyes. She doesn't look up—not when the escort's shoes click towards the microphone, not when she clears her throat, not when she reads out "Abilee Wilkin."

The silence is deafening. Her friends nudge her, giving her quizzical looks. A woman who can only be Abilee's mother lets out a strangled cry from somewhere behind me. Still, Opal doesn't move.

_Betrayal._ That's the first thing I feel, layered overtop a deep, blistering core of anger. I want to step out of line—want to call her name or provoke her or push her up the steps myself—but Opal has frozen into place.

Sunshine squints her eyes, shifting her gaze from the paper to the audience and back again. "This is a surprise," she says, her voice dripping with unease. "Where's our volunteer?" I grit my teeth, trying to keep calm. I'm not sure myself.

I crane my head, trying to get a good look at her. Opal turns around, head down, before forcing her way out of her section into the aisle. I watch as she looks Abilee right in the eye before training her gaze on me. The girl I love, a girl once driven by victory, is gone, replaced by a fearful child. She blinks back tears, mouthing "I'm sorry" before turning on her heel and leaving the square.

I can feel the heat that comes with an outburst prickling through my veins. We'd talked about this a million times. I'd asked her, month after month, day after day, if she was sure. We'd strategized, planned out our exact moves, mapped out a foolproof plan to glory. My head spins as I try to form a clear thought. _I don't understand…_

"Abilee?" Sunshine's voice is more urgent, now that it's clear there will be no volunteers.

I see her a couple rows ahead of me. She looks nothing like the District 1 girls, dressed in cotton instead of diamonds, with no jewelry other than a strange hunk of metal on her wrist. The people in the Capitol are probably already weighing her chances, and to be honest, they don't seem too high. After she sees her stylist, I'm sure she'll get a sponsor or two, but even _that's_ asking a lot—whereas most District 1 girls are glad to be reaped, Abilee's crying like there's no tomorrow.

As she walks up, I can't help but resent her a little. If there's some wire, or something else tech-oriented, we might stand a chance…but she's no Opal.

When Abilee finally gets up to the stage, she wipes her eyes and sniffles as Sunshine makes her way to the male reaping ball. "Now for our boys!" I turn my feet towards the stage, clenching my fists in anticipation. She wastes no time in choosing a name, flittering back to the microphone like a butterfly.

"Our male tribute is Alexan…"

_Now or never. Don't crack._

"I volunteer!" I shout, my voice filled with a strong, sure steadiness. I let out the breath I'd been holding—it was over. There was no going back. I break into a slow jog for the stage, pound up the steps, and meet my district partner at the microphone. _No going back_.

Sunshine's face breaks into a grin as she pats me on the back. Her fingers feel like claws against my skin.

"Now _that's_ more like it!" Getting right on with the show, Sunshine puts her free hand on Abilee's shoulder, pushing us together in earnest. "Shake hands, both of you."

I hold mine out without question, but for some reason, Abi refuses. The clock in the center ticks awkwardly while we stand, as still as statues. As Abi looks down, unmoving, I can't help but wonder what she has against me. First this morning, and now this… "Okay then," I say dismissively, dropping my hand as the crowd lets out a collective "ooh."

Sunshine rambles on for a bit more, talking about honor and wishing us luck, and before I know it I'm inside the Justice Building. A peacekeeper leads me up a dark staircase, throws me inside a room, and slams the door unceremoniously behind him. I spin around, examining my surroundings until my first visitor gets here.

The room is glorious, with gold vaulted ceilings and mahogany panels. A long polished table littered with bread, fruit, and cheese and several small, red velvet chairs are the only furnishings, aside from the roaring fireplace. Cozy enough for goodbyes, welcoming enough to make you forget why you're saying goodbye in the first place…the Capitol decorators sure know how to set a mood.

Behind me, the door crashes open.

"Congrats, dude!" My roommates rush up and greet me with hugs, which is unusual for them. Reaping day brings out different sides of everyone, I guess—Opal just proved that. "Thanks, guys." We laugh and joke and jostle around on the floor for a few minutes until a Peacekeeper summons them to go. Next come my personal trainers, Athena and Pandora, who each kiss me on the cheek before leaving. My heart pangs knowing this might be the last time I see them, but I try my best to brush it off.

I seat myself comfortably on one of the velvet chairs, relaxing while I wait. There's a subtle knock at the door.

"Come in," I call out as if I own the room. A thirteen year old I've never seen before walks in, his dress shoes making funny noises as they shuffle against the rug. "Hi?" I start off, and he takes the cue to introduce himself.

"I'm Alexander." I raise an eyebrow, waiting for recognition to strike. Do I_know_ an Alexander?

"You volunteered for me," he says, tripping over his words. _Ah_. "I…I just wanted to say t-thank you." I smile, trying to seem amiable. "No problem, kid." When he leaves, I collapse on the couch, throwing my head into my hands. Who knew this would be so emotionally draining?

Suddenly, there's a change in the temperature, and before I know it, I can hear them: their voices cut through the silence like a knife, curling like smoke through the room until they find my ears. "Where's our little victor?"

My head snaps up to face none other than my parents. They look just as I remember them—soft brown hair, protective smiles, eyes glowing with pride. "Hi mom," I say weakly, trying to smile up at them. "Hi dad."

They seat themselves on the loveseat across from me, her hand curled delicately in his. I didn't think they'd come… "You're going to do great, sweetheart," my mom coos, and my dad nods his affirmation. "Give 'em hell, Arion."

My heart swells inside my chest, filing me with a wholeness I thought I'd lost. "I will," I say as I study them, trying to seal in the details of this moment. We sit in silence, ignoring the veil between us. "I love you guys," I get out, and they leave their spot on the couch to join me in a hug.

"Who are you talking to?"

I jump, turning to the door. A Peacekeeper gives me a strange look from the foyer, brow furrowed in confusion. I shoot a glance at my parents only to find they're no longer there.

Quickly, I swallow the lump in my throat—maybe they're better as a memory, after all. They'd never have to experience the loss of a child, like the hundreds who'd sat here before me.

"N-no one," I stammer. "Is it time to go?" I sit up only to have him shake his head. "No, you've got one more visitor. Just letting you know." I grit my teeth and nod: I know exactly who it is. To my dismay, he closes the door behind him, leaving me alone with the one person I don't want to see.

"Arion?" Her tone is soft, one you'd use with a child or a wounded animal. I position my back to the door, staring into the coals instead of acknowledging her. _You betrayed me_, I think. _You betrayed me_.

"Why'd you even bother coming?" I spit, the words flying like acid from my mouth and onto the carpet. She lets out a distraught sniffle, and finally, I relent, giving her a look. Her eyes are rimmed red with tears, her makeup falling in streaky lines down her cheekbones.

She drags her sleeve across her nose with a sob. "B-because I lov—" I chuckle harshly in interruption. "You what? You love me?" I shake my head as she nods. "No, Opal. You just proved you don't."

She staggers back like she's been shot, her mouth hanging open in an 'o'. "H-how can you even say that?" She dabs at her eyes with a tissue, her voice quivering with unease. "Arion, w-what's this about?"

_You betrayed me._

"It's about trust!" I shout, knocking the chair I'm sitting on over. She jumps and takes a few steps back, skittering towards the door like a crab. "It's about how you're a liar! You messed up my chances, you know that, right? Going in with you, I actually had a shot! If I don't come home it's your fault! It's on you, Opal!"

She's bawling now, her face resting in the crook of her elbow to muffle the noise. I know I'm overreacting, but it's hard not to.

"Why'd you lie to me?" I demand, trying to make sense of the day's events. "Why?"

Opal coughs a little, trying to calm down enough to talk. "You knew I wanted to b-be the volunteer. You knew, but you went for it anyways! You could have given up your spot, but apparently n-nothing gets in the way of victory for you."

She stands still, waiting for me to comment, but I have nothing to say. It's true that I could have backed out, but she couldn't ask that of me…could she? I've trained my whole life for this…when I don't respond, she coughs again and continues.

"What if it came down to us t-two? What if you had to kill me?" She trembles, trying uselessly to staunch the flow of tears. "How could you ever handle that?"

I put my head in my hands, not daring to speak. The truth is, I couldn't, but I'm too mad to say it.

"I…I just thought…" I shake my head, pressing my palms against my browbone. "I thought we were going to do this together."

Opal looks up, interpreting my words as a moment of weakness. She moves closer, not stopping until she's directly in front of me. Her fingers reach up to wipe my face, touching it with a foreign element of mildness: funny, I didn't realize I was crying.

"I'm sorry."

_You betrayed me._

"Arion, please, I'm sorry…"

I clear my throat, cutting her off. "You know what? I never needed you." Her eyes widen to the size of saucers, filling up with tears again . "You don't mean it…" She whimpers as she shakes her head. "You don't…"

_You betrayed me._

I clench my jaw, nodding tensely. I know I'll regret it, but I can't stop myself from saying what I do next. "I can do this without you, just you watch. Don't expect a cut of my winnings."

The look on her face tells me there's no use taking it back. I've broken something beyond repair—no matter how many times I try to apologize, it will be in vain. No amount of words, no amount of tears could make this up to her. No use in begging, no use in pleading…no use.

Opal stumbles towards the door, curling her hand gently around the handle. _No use._

"Maybe it's best if I go," she says softly. "Yeah," I agree, my voice flat. "Maybe it's best if I go, too."

* * *

**_Authors for this section: Abilee Wilkin written by DinaShadow | Arion Everex written by careerinfatuation_**


	3. Disparity: District 2's Reaping

_A girl devoted, focused on naught but victory,_

_A boy with too much to lose to seek just glory._

_The tributes of District 2 share not the love of the fight.  
_

* * *

**District 2 | The Reaping of Aphrodite Maddox**

* * *

_Ring-ring! Ring-ring! R-_

"Shut up!" I scream over my alarm clock, smacking it with my bare hand forcefully.

"Aphy? What is going on!?" My mum yells in horror, running to my bedroom door.

"I'll tell you what's wrong. This alarm clock doesn't know how to shut up." I growl, glaring at the clock as if it was a living thing.

If it was a living thing though, it would probably run for its life.

"Well honey, I'm sure it won't annoy you anymore since it's broken." My mum grabs the now broken alarm clock, and stares at it for a while before nodding her head.

"Yep. Definitely broken." Then something clicks in my head. I never set the alarm clock! Why would I do it today? Why would I-

It's reaping day. Hell yeah.

"Whoo! Reaping day! This is what I have been waiting for!" I jump for joy, doing a little dance. I turn to face my mother, who is frowning. As soon as she notices me looking, her frown immediately turns into a smile.

"Yes Aphrodite. Fantastic." I can tell she is acting. Besides the fact that it is a little too obvious to miss, she never said my full first name unless something is wrong.

"Mum, where's Ruby? I want to say bye to her because I won't see her until the reaping. I'm going out with my friends real quick."

"Oh, she's downstairs. I love you sweetie. Don't die." Her voice cracks at the last sentence, and I give her a tight embrace.

"Mum, I'm a career. I can do this. I will do this. I love you." I let go of her, give a quick smile before heading down stairs.

"Ruby!" I yell halfway down the stairs.

"Aphy! Savior!" She cutely smiles and hugs me as I get to the bottom of the stairs. Ruby has started calling my savior ever since I saved her from our horrible stepdad. He was a paedophile. I heard my sister screaming, pleading, crying for help and raced to her room one night when mum was working. I opened the door quickly and caught our step-dad on top of her. He just laughed seeing me, considering I was girl I couldn't do anything. Didn't he know I was a career? I pounded his face in. He went to hospital with major injuries, and my mother filed for divorce soon after. Rumor has it that he moved to the Capitol straight after getting released from hospital. Justice you ask? None. When I become victor, he will be tortured to death.

But to be honest, I hate Ruby calling me savior. It reminds me of the night, and what I saw. The poor girl makes it so hard for me to forget.

"Hey Ruby! I just wanted to say bye because the next time I see you will be at the reaping today. I'm going out with my friends real quick."

"Okay! You're going to win aren't you Aphy?"

"Of course Ruby, my little sweetie pie." I'm only very sweet to her. It's just Ruby that makes me turn all sweet. My mother too.

"Alright, bye! Love you!" I give her a peck on the cheek and big hug. I soon leave the house quietly, heading to the enormous park with a swimming pool. I know my friends will be there.

"Hey guys!" I yell out to my friends, who are busy chatting among themselves.

"Hey Aphy!"

"Hey beautiful!" Were most of the replies Aphy got from her friends, which were both boys and girls.

"Hey. Can't I get a little cheer? I AM the district 2 female tribute of the 34th hunger games!" I say confidently, earning a few laughs.

"Aren't you cocky today?" one of my friends, Sadie, remarks still laughing.

"Aphrodite Maddox, what are we going to do without you?" another one of mates, Jake smirks. He runs a hand through his blonde hair, and winks at me. I have to admit, he is very handsome. Aren't all my friends? I'm just kidding around.

"I don't know. What are you going to do without me?" I play along, giggling a bit.

After that, my friends and I just talk about random things.

"What weapons are you going to use?"

"About anything I can get my hands on really." I reply, watching some peacekeepers drag a guy out of the swimming pool.

"What are they doing to him?" I ask my group of friends, pointing to the man who looks terrified and is getting dragged out the pool.

"Wasn't he the man on the news? The one they needed to catch because he stole something from the peacekeepers?" Sadie says, giving him a very good look.

"Oh, that guy. But they said he was a billionaire!" My friend Percy shouts, shocked.

"Aren't most of the guys in District Two?" Jake laughs, hitting Percy on the head for being so stupid.

"True. Why would he hide in the most famous park in District Two? Idiot." I laugh, and so do most of my friends. Who does that?

"My dad wants me to be a peacekeeper." Percy sighs, frowning.

"My mum never wanted me to become a tribute of the hunger games, but here I am now. I don't understand why though." I think I might. I know she doesn't want me to become a tribute because she loves me, but me winning the games benefits my whole family. Also, our stepdad will be tortured to death. Excellent.

I was never the one to kill someone slowly, just quickly, but for my sick stepdad I will make an exception.

"You know that it is very tough on your little sister too." My blonde friend Charlie reminds me.

"Of course I do! I'm going to miss little Ruby, little innocent Ruby. But one of the reasons I'm doing this is to get justice to the man who almost killed her pure innocence…" I mutter the last sentence, but unfortunately some of my friend heard me.

"What?" My friend Rebecca asks, confused.

"Nothing, you must of heard a mockingjay."

Rebecca nods her head slowly, before saying-

"I know that mockingjays can sing tunes, but I never knew they could talk. Do you mean jabber jays?"

"Um, sure." I curse under my breath. Sure?! That's my response?

After a long awkward silence, Percy speaks up.

"So what angle are you going for?"

"You know me, and the boys. They all want me. So, I'm going for flirty, sexy but dangerous. A confident winner."

Jake snorts, and pats me on the back.

"Right, all the boys want you. Isn't it the other way around?"

"Haha, you wish. You're just jealous because all the girls aren't running for you. Neither are the boys." I laugh as he lets out an awkward cough.

"I'm…straight."

"Sure you are babe." I give him a peck on the cheek, and he immediately wipes the spot I kissed, even though it was dry and clean.

"Definitely gay."

Everyone laughs, and he blushes. He sees a girl walking pass, a pretty one too, and flexes his biceps. He even winks at her, but she just scoffs and runs away.

I clap my hands, and everyone joins along.

"Look at that, Jake Maynard everyone!" I yell, and everyone in the park looks at me like I'm crazy.

Well, I'm going to be on TV, take that.

"Shut up Aphy. I don't even know why they call you Aphrodite."

"People call me Aphrodite because it's my name idiot. But if it wasn't, they probably would still call me that." I giggle, and flip my brunette hair, totally showing off.

"You're so…happy, for someone who is about to go into the hunger games."

"It was my choice. If I win, everything will be going to plan and perfect. If I lose, will too bad so sad, it was all worth it." I lie.

If I die, none of this is going to worth it.

"You know we will miss you, Aphy. Even though you are a cocky airhead most of the time." Jake says, hugging me tightly. I hug him back. I also give him another peck on the cheek, and this time he doesn't wipe it off. He looks at me with lust in his eyes, and then starts to stare at my lips.

I know what he wants, but for all I know I'm probably going to start dating someone in the hunger games. Even though it is a game where only one survives, some tributes still date or fall in love.

Besides, I only like Jake as a simple friend. So I give him a small kiss on the lips, and though all our friends are shocked, I say aloud-

"It was a friendly gesture. Relax." Everyone sighs from relief; they obviously thought that we would be a horrible couple. Except for Jake. Who looks heartbroken? Or angry? Or just overall pissed and confused?

"What's up with that look on your face Jake?"

"You just kissed me - ON THE LIPS. You call that a friendly gesture? I was only looking at your lips because you have some chocolate on the top." He looks like he's about to lick my top lip, but my friend Sadie interferes.

"Whoa! Wait…oh, you do. But still Jake, you shouldn't lick it off!"

Jake smirks, and replies-

"Just a friendly gesture."

Everyone laughs again, and we start talking about other random things.

We talk about my tactics and what I should do in training.

I may seem like a stupid brunette, but I'm competition. Trust me. I can use about any weapon, and probably will get a training score of ten. I beat all the other girls in training. I'm especially good with knives and swords. Like I said before, I'm the sort of career who gives quick deaths, so knives and swords are good for me.

After a while, it's time to go to where we have the reapings every year.

"Are you excited?" My friend Charlie whispers to me while we're walking.

"Of course I am!" I snort, what a foolish question. This is an amazing honor. This is what I was born for.

And maybe, just maybe, this is was I was born to die for.

"Welcome! Welcome to the 34th Hunger Games District Two reapings!" The escort, Brad Pyrros, says in his Capitol accent, making a few people around me chuckle. As if they hadn't heard it before.

"Now first we'll have a few victors come up and make a speech!"

Ugh, I hate this. It's the same thing every time. Great honor winning the Hunger Games, blah blah blah.

After it's over, Brad the escort stands between the giant fish bowls deciding if he should pick boys or girls first.

"Hmm, I think its ladies first!"

Yes. My time to shine.

Brad reaches into the bowl, and picks out a name. I think I should volunteer already, but decide against it and wait for the name to be called out.

"Artemisia Leven."

"No! No!" I hear a boy scream out. Must be his girlfriend or something. Sad he can't do anything about it. But I can.

"I volunteer as tribute!" I yell, making everyone stare at me. Well, this is District Two. I don't see how that is such a shocker.

I walk up the stage, blowing kisses to the crowd and putting on a cocky smirk. Some boys smirk at me, and wink too. A shame I never got to know them. Some were actually cute.

"What's your name sweetheart?"

"Aphrodite Maddox." I say confidently, smirking to the crowd.

Brad then goes to the fish bowl filled with the boy's names and picks one out quickly.

"Finton Andrews."

A handsome guy with messy blonde hair, who is also tall and brawny steps out of the 17 year old section and walks up to the stage.

Wait. Where are the male volunteers? There were heaps who wanted to volunteer! Besides, Finton looks a bit scared. But since of his big image, maybe people had mistaken him as a career with lots of luck.

"Our tributes for the 34th Hunger Games!" Brad yells, and the crowd cheers.

"You may shake hands."

Finton and I shake hands, and he smiles warmly, also saying hello.

Now that I hear his voice, I realize that he was the one who was yelling "No! No!" When that other girl got reaped. He must be acting really nice because he's grateful.

"Was that your girlfriend?" I ask him, whispering so no one else hears.

He must know who I'm talking about, because he frowns and then mutters-

"Maybe."

Well, he's a little shy.

Once everyone leaves, Finton and I get separated into two different rooms. It's time to say goodbye.

"Aphy! Saviour!" Ruby runs into the room crying, tears running down her cheeks.

"Don't cry Ruby. You'll make me cry." I give her a tight embrace, which lasts for at least 5 minutes. "Mum." I mumble as I look up from Ruby to my mother. "I love you." I proclaim, smiling, pretending that I'm not about to cry.

"I love you so much more." we hug, and a tear slides down my cheek. Just one tear. Just one. I'm strong. I know I am. I need to be.

"Mum, don't marry someone when I'm gone!" I laugh, and she joins along.

"I love how you make jokes at the worst of times. Do that in the hunger games honey. It will do you good."

"Of course."

The next people to come are my friends. I tell them I love each and every one of them, giving them all a hug. They tell me I'll win, and know it for a fact. They're very supportive.

"Time's up!" two peacekeepers come in to take away my friends, and I then realize -

This is it.

This is my time to shine – to shine in the Hunger Games.

* * *

**District 2 | The Reaping of Finton Andrews**

* * *

"Finn! Finton, wake up!" shouts Elora, my sister as she runs into my room and jumps on the end of my bed.

I groan and try to pull the covers further up over my head. The sun's only just risen and I'm pretty sure that today _isn't _a school day.

"Come on, Finton Andrews," sighs my mum, also walking in.

I sit up and look around, trying to work out why everyone's in my room.

Oh yeah, it's the Reaping today. Which would explain why Elora is in such a good mood. She's not going into the Arena because people will volunteer in her place and she's training to be a Career anyway.

I haven't been training so I'll have no chance if I'm reaped but I hope someone would want to take my place anyway.

"Fine, I'm going to get up now," I lie to get them out of my room.

"Good," says mum, dragging Elora out.

I slump back down and try to fall asleep again, hoping that this is going to be some kind of bad dream. When I was younger, it would work…

"Finn! Get up!"

…Now it obviously doesn't.

I groan again and climb out of bed, walking over to my wardrobe to grab the smart clothes that have been especially bought for me for the Reaping: a plain white, ironed shirt and a pair of black trousers. Before I put them on, I have a quick shower so I can at least look decent even if I won't be going to the Arena.

Once I've dressed into my Reaping clothes, I run down the stairs and into the kitchen. Elora's sitting on the side with a piece of toast in her hands. My mum's standing next to her in an elegant looking outfit for her return to the Capitol after the Reaping.

I grab a piece of fruit, leaving the room again as I shout over my shoulder, "I'll see you after the Reaping before you go."

"Where are you going?" mum asks.

I think for a moment before answering. "I'm going for a walk."

She is no doubt disbelieving of my excuse but she doesn't argue as she lets me leave the house, for a few last hours of freedom before the Reaping.

I'm no doubt the worst possible guy that District Two could probably have. I am weak, useless and I never went once to the compulsory training sessions. The only good thing that came from that was the beatings that did make me _slightly _stronger. And I am _slightly _stronger after looking after Elora for such a long time. But, other than those facts, I am sure that District Two would cringe to have me as a tribute.

I laugh to myself as I follow the path that I would know with my eyes closed to Artemisia's house. As I reach it, I take a deep breath to steady myself after not having seen her in such a long time.

But before I have the chance to knock, it is already swung open so I am face-to-face with Artemisia's dad.

"What?" he growls, the imposing look on his face reinforced by the important outfit like my mum's that he wears.

"I was wondering if I could see Artemisia before the Reaping this afternoon," I answer in the most confident voice that I can muster in this situation.

"She's out," he tells me. "She's with her _better _friends." And then he slams the door in my face.

I step back.

_Better _friends? Since when has she needed _better _friends? We'd always been best friends. Almost family but best friends still.

Maybe her parents did this. But her parents always liked me, never thought anything was wrong. Unless the last day we saw each other destroyed all those feelings.

Those thoughts spin around my head as my feet lead me away from her house, my head unaware of what is happening.

For some reason, I stop when I reach the edge of a park. I turn to look at the people inside when I hear voices and laughter coming from them. My breath catches though when I see who one girl is.

I stare as Artemisia, my best friend, sits in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by a few other people. Her hair has been unnaturally curled and her beautiful face has makeup on it. She is pretending to smile and laugh at everything that a boy says but I know that she's faking it all.

As I walk forward slightly to stand behind a tree with the hope of hearing some of their conversation, I notice her sigh and look up for a second. I know she sees me because the expression on her face momentarily changes to one of longing.

I raise my eyebrows as if to say, "What's happening?" when she keeps eye contact with me.

She pulls a face as she turns away, putting her hand on the boy's beside her and leaning against him. The boy responds by wrapping his arms around her and kissing the top of her head.

I understand now. Her parents don't actually like me. Because of our last night together, they've arranged for her to go out with someone else. Fine, if that's how she wants it, she can have it that way. She obviously hasn't tried to stop it because she's still there after four months.

I walk away with my hands clenched into fists in my pockets. I take long detours around town to the Square for the Reaping as I let all my memories get mixed up with what I've just seen.

Before I know what's happened, I am standing beside all the other seventeen years old boys, waiting for the Reaping to take place.

"Welcome, welcome to the 34th Hunger Games District Two Reapings!" Brad Pyrros, the escort for this District, says in his distinct Capitol accent. He smiles at the few laughs from the crowd, assuming it's a good thing and not about his accent. Then he adds, "Now first we'll have a few victors come up and make a speech."

I zone out as the same speeches that are said every year are repeated, saying about how winning is such an honor and that District Two is likely to have another winner this year. Sure, we probably are with the number of strong volunteers waiting but they don't have to tell us.

When the speeches have finally finished, Brad stands between the giant fish bowls, debating for some time if he should pick boys or girls first. "Hmm, I think it's ladies first!" he decides eventually. Brad reaches into the bowl, selects a name, and walks back over to the microphone with the slip grasped tightly in his hand. He slowly unfolds it for added drama then calls, "Artemisia Leven."

"No! No!" I hear myself shouting out. I quickly clap a hand over my mouth but it's too late, everyone's already heard. And I don't even know why I was objecting, it's not as if we're really friends anymore.

"I volunteer as tribute!" a girl yells.

My head snaps around and I thank whatever change of fate spared my old best friend from the horror of the Arena because a girl chose this year to volunteer.

The girl with perfect brunette hair and blue eyes walks up to the stage, blowing kisses to the crowd and putting on a cocky smirk, using her beauty to already win her sponsors.

"What's your name sweetheart?" asks Brad.

"Aphrodite Maddox," she answers confidently, smirking again to the crowd.

Brad nods then goes to the fish bowl filled with the boy's names and picks one out quickly.

"Finton Andrews," he calls at the microphone.

My eyes go wide and look up from the floor, where I'd been looking ever since Artemisia was saved. My name's been chosen and I'll disgrace the District if no one steps forward. I wait for a few seconds for a volunteer that I know wants to take my place but none come.

Ha! I bet this is a plan to get revenge for me not going to training. Well, if it is, maybe I should show them that you can win without training.

I walk out of my section and onto the stage, acknowledging none of the cheers or claps from the crowd.

"Our tributes for the 34th Hunger Games!" Brad announces, making the crowd cheers. "You may shake hands," he adds to us.

I shake hands with Aphrodite and smile, saying quietly, "Hey."

She looks at me more closely when she hears my voice. "Was that your girlfriend?" she asks me in a whisper no one else hears.

I frown then mutter, "Maybe." Then I pull another face and go to correct myself.

Artemisia _isn't _my girlfriend and she never will be now. We shared one kiss but now she's been paired to another boy. And, anyway, I highly doubt that I'll be coming home to be with her. But before I get a chance to change what I said, we're both marched into the Justice Building behind us and into separate rooms so we can say our goodbyes.

"You're going to be a disgrace to the District," sings Elora as she walks into the room, grinning up at me. "You're going to be the first District Two tribute to die at the Bloodbath."

She looks positively ecstatic about this until I wipe the smile off her face when I point out, "If I die at the Bloodbath, it won't affect me. It'll be the family that's alive that will be known for being related to the disgrace."

She stops dancing around the room. "Okay," she sighs, "Try not to die then."

"Sure," I agree. I bend down and hug her quickly. "I was planning on trying not to die anyway, just to prove that you don't need training."

"I don't think that it'll be the best idea to do that for that reason," mum argues from behind me.

I turn around to see my parents in the doorway, both smiling for some reason.

"But it is good that you want to win," dad says.

"Yeah," I mumble, unsure of what else I can say.

Mum looks down at the watch on her wrist and sighs. "Sorry, darling, but we really must go now. Our train will be going soon. I would have asked you if you could look after Elora but you obviously can't now so do you know if Artemisia would be able to?" she asks.

I shrug my shoulders.

"Well, if she does happen to come here, please ask her," she instructs.

"She's not coming," I disagree.

Mum raises her eyebrows. "If you say so."

She walks to me, kisses me on each cheek then steps back to let my dad shake my hand. All three members of my family wave then leave, and I sigh and turn away, looking out of the window as they begin to clear the Square of the Reaping's décor.

"Finn?" whispers a voice from the door.

I know exactly who it is but I chose to ignore them, still staring out of the window, crossing my arms over my chest. I feel two arms wrap around me as my name is repeated in my ear. I shiver as her warm breath runs down my cheek as she kisses my neck.

"Go away," I mutter, trying to push her away.

She only holds on tighter as she complains, "I'm your best friend, Finn. You're going away today, maybe never to return, please just talk to me."

I spin around and see a look of pain in her beautiful eyes as she looks up to my face. I sigh, "You shouldn't be here. Your parents don't like me anymore. You should be with your _lover_."

"My parents don't have to know I'm here," she points out, smiling. "They can think I'm somewhere else." She pauses. "But please don't think I prefer him to you."

"It looked that way this morning," I spit.

"I have to act that way, Finn, it's my only choice," she groans. "Believe me, I'd much rather be in your arms."

I allow a small smile and take her wish, wrapping my arms around her back.

She grins and stands on tiptoe so our faces are level. "See? This is so much better."

I laugh. "It's a shame that it'll never be like this."

"Who says that?" she questions.

I don't have time to answer before she has pressed her lips to mine and locked her arms around my neck. I smile into the kiss as I wish that we could always be like this.

"Time's up!" shouts a peacekeeper outside the door.

We break apart and sigh.

"I'll see you after the Games," Artemisia decides, kissing my cheek quickly as she begins to walk away.

"Yeah," I agree. "Oh yeah, can you look after Elora?"

She laughs. "Of course I can."

Then she leaves the room so I am left alone.

Now I realize that I need to win the Games, to come out alive. I've got so much waiting for me at home and I could prove so much.

I will win.

* * *

_**Authors for this section: Aphrodite Maddox**__**written by sMoShFiRe | Finton Andrews written by MissBunburyHope**_

_**Editor's Note: I appreciate the reviews, follows, and favorites, everyone! If you have questions, comments, or otherwise, I encourage all feedback to either myself and/or the authors for each individual tribute.  
**_


	4. Lost Worlds: District 3's Reaping

_Two children lost in worlds of th__eir own,_**  
**

_The daughter in heart; the son in mind.  
_

_The tributes of District 3, forced to confront demons not of their making._

* * *

**District 3 | The Reaping of Bellatrix Craine**

* * *

I gasp and jerk upright in my bed, letting my eyes focus as I sigh. _It's okay_, I tell myself. _There's a one in a million chance you'll be a tribute. _I untangle myself from the sheets on my bed and wipe the sweat from my forehead, looking over at the pretty faded yellow dress resting on a chair by my window.

_The reaping..._

I walk over and stare at it until I hear my mother's voice rising into my thoughts: "Bellatrix," she calls from outside my bedroom door. "You slept in. The reaping will begin soon."

"Alright," I answer just loud enough for her to hear.

I'm only twelve; this is the first Reaping I've ever had to worry about. Fortunately, I probably won't ever have to worry too much about it again. I'm the daughter of the richest people in District 3, not counting the mayor's own family. Though we still have trouble sometimes and I've had to learn the understanding of being hungry and dehydrated, I won't have to put more than one of my name, Bellatrix Craine, in the reaping bowl to get food to keep me alive. I don't want to have to watch others be chosen for the Hunger Games; I was never a good person for depression. Others may scream their heads off or cry themselves to death, but I'm worse, and I don't want to have to explain it...especially to myself.

I pull on the yellow dress that makes my dark hair and eyes stand out even more. I look in my old, cracked mirror and slowly braid my hair in two, hoping that I can ward off the reaping just a little bit longer. Afterwards, I look at myself – and see deep brown eyes, black hair, olive skin, small rounded nose, and flushed cheeks. Usually they're filled with a slight rosy color; I guess not today.

Opening my door, I see my mother standing there waiting for me. She gives me a worried expression and puts her arms around me. "Mom," I mutter into her shoulder.

"Look at this," she whispers in my ear. "My only child going off to her first Reaping- or at least her first important one." The sudden memory of my twelfth birthday only a month or so ago rushes back to me. There were no smiles that day. None. Every single one before had been filled with happiness, but the invisible twelve resting over my head brought on the realization of my fate.

"Come on, Mom," I tell her. I back away from her and try to smile. I just barely succeed. "We'll be late."

On our way to the town square where everyone meets up for the reaping, I try to convince myself that everything will be okay. _Bellatrix_, I think. _Stop your worrying. Like you said earlier, there's a one in a million chance you will be chosen as a tribute. Of course, it is a random pull...but that isn't the point. You will only have one copy of your name in there while many others will have more. You don't have to worry._

"Alright, Bellatrix," I hear my mother say. I snap out of my thoughts and listen to her. "This is it, sweetheart." She turns to me, a scared expression obvious on her face. "There's only the smallest chance, right? Only a tiny chance that you'll even be close to-" I interrupt her with a hug. She wraps her arms tightly around me.

"Breathe, Mom," I tell her in as calm a voice I can muster at this moment. "Everything will be alright. Okay?" I back away to see her reply. She turns to my father who's been standing silently by us the entire time – he never approved of me. He didn't like the idea of me learning about nature and the human body rather than how to use a weapon and gaining physical strength. He still cared for me though; I am his daughter, after all.

"It will only be a few minutes," he says in his deep voice. "Then you will be back with us and we will all go home."

"Daddy, take care of Mom until then." His face shows surprise - maybe the smile was a bit too much to add at this point. He simply nods. I turn away and start walking toward the group of twelve –year-olds at the back of the large crowd of twelve to eighteen-year-old kids waiting to know if they'll be a tribute in Panem's nasty Hunger Games.

"I'm scared," I hear a kid my age whimper. It's a small girl, way smaller than I am. Her arms and legs are as thin as a branch from a scrawny tree, her small hands covering her face. She didn't seem to be talking to anyone specifically, but I walk up to her anyway.

"Don't be," I tell her. She looks up in the shock that someone actually heard her.

"What?" she whispers. I look her straight in the eye. She's shorter than me so I have to look down. "What did you say?"

"Don't be," I repeat. "Don't be so scared."

"Why are you so confident?" She drops her hands.

"I'm not. I'm equally as scared as everyone else."

"I know you," she hisses, surprising me by the dangerous aura she suddenly projects. "You're that _girl._ You're a _Craine_." She spits it out like venom. "Well, I got news for you. Just because you're name is only in there once doesn't mean anything. My name is in more than once. So go away and stop teasing the rest of us."

"I-I didn't mean-" I stutter. She pushes me away from her and my mind explodes. "Hey! You don't have a right to treat me this way!" I yell exactly what I think. "I'm not trying to be mean or anything!" She glares at me for one last second before changing her expression. She starts to cry and others of our age group come over to see what the matter is. They must see me red in the face with anger and her crying - they will probably get the wrong idea. _Great_, I tell myself. _Now look what you've done._

"Get away!" a boy shouts at me.

"Don't be so mean, Craine!" another person starts. Then, suddenly, every twelve-year-old is against me.

"Hello, District 3!" a loud voice says. "Welcome to the thirty-fourth Hunger Games!" I back away from the others that seem to hate me now. Then again, none of them ever met me; I don't work in the factories like they have to. I do work though, if you count the occasional piece of machinery that my neighbors can't seem to fix; other than that, I've always been caught up in some book. I don't go to school either. My parents, though they work long hours in the factories, taught me themselves.

I hear people speaking on the stage set up for the reaping - am I even paying attention? How can I pay attention to whoever is talking when I have as good a chance as anyone else to be chosen as a tribute for the Games? I don't want to die. _No_, I tell myself. _Stop. Everyone _else _has a chance. _You _don't._

"We shall do the ladies first!" I know this woman. She's Elena Bonita. Capitol people are always loud and obnoxious. She isn't any different dressed in her fancy clothes. I look her up and down. She looks well fed, maybe a bit too well fed. She's still a slim woman though.

_Wait_, I think. _Did she just say 'ladies first'? Good. This way I won't have to be pulled by suspension like the boys because they're second-_

"Bellatrix Craine!" I blink and turn to look around me. I could have sworn I heard my name. It was probably my mother being worried about me. But, wait. That wasn't my mother's voice. Oh! Perhaps it was one of the others that were mad at me. But... Our voices are still a little squeaky from our age. This voice was older. "Where are you, Bellatrix Craine?" I slowly move my head up to Elena. _No,_ my mind screams. _No, no, no, and no! This- This isn't-_"There you are!" I feel peacekeepers' hands pushing me forward. "Traitor twelve-year-olds," I think as they back away from me to show where I was.

"What?" a peacekeeper by me asks.

"I said that out loud didn't I?" I mutter. I'm pushed onto the stage. Looking up, I see my face plastered to the television screen hanging above my head at the top of the stage. My eyes are wild and my hair is losing in a fight against the breeze.

"Come," Elena says. "Come, dearie. Stand right here." She drags me by my arm to the center by the glass ball full of the names of the girls. _The names_, my thoughts whisper. _The hundreds- if not thousands- of names on slips of paper...and only one was mine. One. Yet, that was the one slip her manicured hand happened to reach for. Did she see the name and reach for it on purpose? Maybe she knows my parents? Grandparents? Heard of them before and wanted to see me?_" Our male tribute is...Tophani Salasata!"

I see a boy start his way from the group of fourteen-year-olds. He's small. He's shorter than me and thinner too, which seems a little odd showing he's older than me. We could very clearly be mistaken for family members, though, with our black hair and brown eyes. I thank him with my mind for momentarily taking the cameras away from me. I search for my parents, remembering them. I spot them behind everyone else. My father is holding my mother. I cannot see her face because it is buried in his shirt. I know he is pale though. The dark eyes we share wide and looking right at me seem to be speaking to me.

_Why? _they seem to whisper. _Why you? Why us? You only had one name. One…why?_

"Now, shake hands, you two," the mayor, who I didn't even notice before, says. I turn slowly to Tophani and have to slightly bend my head down to look at him. He seems calm enough in our situation. _How? _I want to ask him. _How are you so calm when we just had our death warrants signed for us? _His hand is stretched out. I hesitatingly take it, my heart pounding against my ribs. Panem's anthem plays.

I blink and take a deep breath.

I'm in a beautiful room, but I don't care. "Mom," I whisper standing in its center. "Dad. This wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed...I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be in this room." The door bursts open. I'm suddenly in my mother's arms and tears are running down both of our faces like rivers. I feel my father's arms come around both of us. I've never seen him cry. We pull away from one another as my mother strokes my hair and wipes hurriedly at my eyes, as if she can push the tears into nonexistence.

"Bellatrix," my dad finally says. "Everything will be alright...right?" He's asking me? My father...he's the bravest man I've ever known. He's asking me...

"Daddy," I whimper and fall into his arms. He clutches my head with one hand and holds me with the other. I feel his warm tears falling onto my shoulder. "I don't know, Daddy." He pulls away to look at me. I give him a small smile. "But...I'm sure everything will be okay." That gives him the strength to smile back and we all hug again.

"Time's up," a peacekeeper says opening the door to the room. I nod to him. He seems to notice my strong father crying and closes the door after adding, "Hurry up." I turn back to my parents.

"Bellatrix," they say. I kiss them each on the cheek and give them one last tight hug.

"It's time, Mommy, Daddy," I say simply with a sad smile. "Wish me luck."

"Only the best for you," my mother cries. My father nods and grips my mother's hand tightly. He opens the door.

"We love you, Bellatrix," he sighs. "After this, you will be back with us and we will all go home together." The door closes behind them and I feel sick. _After this_, my mind repeats. _After this, there might not be a me to go with them._

* * *

**District 3 | The Reaping of Tophani Salasata**

* * *

I chuck a rock at the factory in front of me, missing my intended target by several meters. That's not really much of a surprise to be honest, as my aims never really been that good. I could probably sit here chucking rocks for hours, and wouldn't hit that camera until the games had finished.

_Thunk!_

Another rock slams into the wall and falls down to the ground, where a small pile has been forming over the last hour or two.

Is it weird to say that this is my hobby?

_Yes, it is, _A quiet, but determined part of my brain tells me. _Yo__u've been wasting what might be the last day in your home district chucking rocks at a CCTV camera for no real reason._

_It won't be my last day_

Because that's true - or, almost certainly true. There's probably around 10,000 people here in District 3, and about 2,000 of them are of reap-able age (we don't tend to live that long). The average number of slips _should _be about 5, but if you factor in tesserae, the number's more like 10 per person. 10 x 2,000 = 20,000 slips in that orb; 10,000 which I could get chosen from.

I have taken 8 slips, plus the 1 I have too, and I'm 14 years old so 9 + 10 + 11 = 30 slips with my name, Tophani Salasata, written on them. That means a 0.3% chance that I'll get chosen to take part in the games. If you factor in my siblings who are eligible, the odds go up to 0.65% chance that someone I know will get chosen. Adding on my best (and only) friend, Mitra, to this tally brings the total odds of someone I care about being chosen to 0.7%.

The odds of dying of natural causes (if it's _natural _to die crushed under a large piece of machinery is debatable though) is just shy of 1% a year. (Calculated through dividing the number of people in District 3 by the number that die each year and multiplying by 100).

That means that I am statistically more likely to die _without _the Hunger Games, than for someone I know to get chosen and (inevitably) die in the games.

Math is my favorite subject at school - if you can call _that place_ a school.

I chuck another rock at the camera to release my pent-up aggression about that particular subject. The miss is closer this time, making the camera wobble precariously, like some bird of prey perched on a mountain top.

Our _school_ is basically a place where we learn to take apart and put together mechanical things, something I have done ever since I was born anyway, so it's not even hard. In Math we sit and stare at a wall while a teacher attempts to explain that 2 + 2 = 4 to some sleeping teenagers.

I once asked her about logarithms and trigonometry, and she gave me a blank stare.

_You really are psychopathic, aren't you? _my brain says scathingly.

_I've never bitten anyone ever since, thank you very much! And it's her fault anyway; she got in the way of my teeth…_

That made me seem even weirder than before to everyone else in my class, not that they hadn't made their minds up already.

_Thunk._

Another rock hits the wall, and rolls into the small pile beneath it.

I'm running low on rocks.

I sigh slightly and sit up, staring moodily at the pile of rocks, trying to estimate their weight, and from that, deducing how much energy I have wasted, and how that equates to food, and money.

"Tophi?"

A voice calls out from behind, and I turn round, hoping to see Mitra, or maybe a peacekeeper coming to arrest me. But to be honest, what peacekeeper is going to call me 'Tophi'? The voice turns out to belong to my oldest sister, Garami, who's already dressed up for the games.

That's the worst bit; they make us treat today like a celebration.

_Actually, the worst bit is probably the murdering bit… _The logical part of me begins to reason, but is cut off shortly by a ruder side of me that only appears on reaping day.

_Shut it._

"What?" I say, turning back to the rocks, now I know I'm not going to be arrested.

"Mum says to come back and get ready, or you're going to be late for the reaping." She tells me. There's a pause before she continues, this time in the incredulous voice people who talk to me often use.

"What _are _you doing here?" She follows my line of sight, and sees the large pile of rocks under the camera, on the other side of the fence. "Are you _trying _to get arrested?" She asks, looking disdainful now.

"Yes"

"_What?!" _she stops talking after this outburst, though she splutters slightly, apparently dumbstruck by the honest answer. (Really, people ask you a question, you actually answer it, and they go all spluttery and angry on you)

She looks at me, hoping for an explanation. I don't give her one, and she writes it off as another part of my odd personality. Odd's one word for it, the people at school have a wide variety, ranging from 'Weirdo' to 'Psycho' to the only-once-used 'Boy with too much brain, and too little of anything else'

It's actually a pretty good description of me.

I avoid talking as much as possible, and have very little in the way of voice. According to the only person who I talk to on a regular basis, Mitra, I could pass for mute if I really wanted to. I've always been short too, with my lack of height. I can barely reach the tables in the factories and I'm just glad that some younger children work at the plant so I can steal their chairs, which are designed to be higher. I blame it on bad nutrition, but my mum swears I've got some dwarf blood in me somewhere.

My face looks is completely round, like a circle, and my nose is short, thin and pointy. You could probably use it as a knife if you wanted to, not that my family has any food to cut anymore, we barely scrape by, and if it wasn't for me working, we'd all be starving even more than we are already. I'm skinny, like most in my District, and I'd probably be 70 pounds on a good day, but it's never normally a good day where _I _live. The emaciated look I have is shared with most inhabitants of District 3, though I seem to have got it worse than other people, or maybe my round face just exaggerates the gaunt look.

The only part of me with any color at all is my hair, but it's not exactly _pretty_. I haven't had my hair cut since I was 13, and I don't think it's ever been washed. It hangs limply around my ears and shoulders, thin and straggly, like the rest of me. It's completely black, and keeps flopping into my eyes at irritating times.

The only part of my appearance that I actually like is my eyes, and that's only because (as far as I know) malnutrition can't make them look worse, like it's done to the rest of my body. They're a yellow-ish brown, but much too big for my face, rounding off the whole 'Startled Owl' look I've got going on.

"Are you mad?"

My sister seems to have regained the use of her vocal chords. I shrug as way as an answer, but this doesn't seem to satisfy her.

"What would mum and dad do if you got caught _breaking a CCTV camera; _you know they'd execute you without a second glance!_" _She says, beginning to shout now.

I realize that shrugging will just provoke her further, so I give my first full-sentence response for weeks.

"Cry for a few months, then gets on with life?"

She starts to splutter again, and I push myself upright, and start to walk towards the dull grey apartment block that's supposed to be my home, though I refuse to call it that. It's just the small hovel where I'm forced to reside at this moment in time.

My sister follows, silently, muttering words like 'selfish' and 'no idea!' occasionally, but wary about continuing conversation with me.

I have that sort of effect on people.

"_You are not going looking like that!"_ My mum shouts as I walk out the doorway with a small 'bye' by way of an explanation.

I turn to her, and utter the word that everyone I know hates most.

"Why?"

She splutters a bit (is that where Garami gets it from?) and then actually responds with a satisfactory answer. It's times like these when I fully appreciate the fact that she's my mother.

"Because you look like a tramp who's been rolling around in the dirt, and what would the Capitol think if you went there dressed like… like _that!_" she gives my dirty clothes a look of trepidation, like they might leap off me and begin attacking her.

I _have _actually been rolling about in the dirt, looking for rocks. Attacking that camera is a hobby of mine, or maybe a tradition. I've worked out the odds, and my chances of death are more likely painful than not painful, and being shot falls under 'not painful', so it's actually a rational decision, if you think about it.

Nobody thinks about it.

I suppress the urge to shrug and say my second, full-sentence answer of the day. Must be some kind of personal record.

"That I'm a weakling who's going to die." I say.

I ponder silently about telling her about how unlikely it is for me to be chosen and how I'm more likely to die this year, but I don't think she'll fully appreciate the impressiveness of my mental calculation - mental being the key word.

I take a second to admire the shade of deep plum my mum's face has turned, before turning towards the door again.

"No!" she says firmly, grabbing me by the shoulders and forcing me into the chair. If we could afford rope, I'm sure she'd have tied me down too, as she reaches over for the scissors. "I am giving you a haircut"

I squirm slightly, but her grip is too strong.

"Sit still" she commands, and I can feel the cool metal touching the back of my neck "I haven't done this in a long time, and the more you move, the worse it's going to look"

I wriggle more strongly in response, as she sighs, and starts to cut off my hair.

"Why didn't you just sit still?" Sanni laments, looking at my greasy, limp (now uneven) hair. Sanni's another one of my sisters - I have three in total. Sanni's oldest, at 16, then Garami, 15 and finally Thandaka, 10. I've also got two little brothers, Pani and Rakta (10 and 9). Of all my siblings, Rakta's the only one who can think rationally. I've been considering training him as my apprentice.

I shrug at Sanni as she looks at my hair in horror again. Her reaction's better than Garami, who laughed so hard she almost stopped breathing, and any reaction at all is better than my mum's reaction when she stood back and saw my hair properly. She gave it a look of horror she normally withholds for my detention slips.

"_And why did you feel the need to explain to Pida the odds of getting your arm stuck in a valve, and it ripping all his skin off?"_

I wince slightly at the memory, my mum's voice bouncing around my head a bit more. I still feel justified for doing that, the last two people with Pida's job _did _lose some skin, and so the odds were pretty high. I work with radiation, or more precisely, controlling it, and stopping it leaking out and giving everyone cancer.

_I never knew people could vomit if you told them what it looked like if you had your skin ripped off, _the logical bit of my brain repeats, remembering the fountain of sick he managed to eject in one go.

_That's because you're a psychopath, _a small voice whispers.

We manage to arrive at the square on time, which is positively late for District 3, as everyone's so early all the time. I say goodbye to my family, as I think mum would blow up if I tried to sidle off without doing so. I make my way forward, pushing my way to the front of the 14 year old section.

"Hey, dwarf, the 12 year olds go at the front!" a boy behind me yells, I recognise him from school. 4 foot 5 is _not _a good height to be, and I'm shorter than most of the 12 year olds.

I stand on my tip-toes, glancing around for Mitra, whose red hair positively glows in the confines of the dull and dusty District 3. I spot her in the female's section, and give her a small wave, though my arm barely reaches over the heads. I consider yelling to her, but decide against it. My voice box might die of shock at actually being used.

_Anyway, _the logical part of me reasons _I can always talk to her later._

_Not if she's reaped, _the other part whispers.

_0.5% odds; that's tiny, less than me, anyway. She'll be fine._

'_But what if-_

_-Shut up!_

I shake my head physically, and the boys snigger, like they do at school all the time. It's a pretty weird noise, like when you shake a sugar shaker when it has too much sugar in it.

"Hello, District 3!" A voice calls from the stage, and I bend sideways, to look up the aisle, in order to actually see anything. Elena Bonita is shouting from the stage. I sigh quietly, and stand up straight again, determined to spend the rest of the reaping staring at the boy in front's hair…

The way it's swishing is actually pretty hypnotizing…

But there's not such a thing as hypnosis…

"_Bellatrix Craine!"_

I jump slightly, aware that I must have drifted off to sleep, while still standing upright. I ponder on the use of this in the Arena, before leaning sideways again to sneak a look at the girl.

"Where are you Bellatrix Craine?" she calls again, as no girl appears in the aisle. Everyone's staring around looking for her. I quickly evaluate the workability of hiding in the crowd as a possible tactic, but write it off almost instantaneously.

A peacekeeper calls from the 12 year olds section and shoves a girl forward, where the others have backed away like she was contagious or something.

_Maybe she is, _the logical bit goes. _She could have the flu, or TB, or something._

She looks pretty shocked. She probably _is _pretty shocked.

She leaves, and I see that she's already taller than me (not really much of a surprise though). She actually looks very similar to me, as she has black hair, brown eyes and olive skin, like mine. But if you look closely, the similarities stop. Her eyes are a deep, dark brown, whilst mine are a slightly off-yellow. Her black hair shines in a way that only the rich people's do, and looks like it was cut professionally, not by her mother with rusty scissors like mine. She's skinny, but not in a malnourished way like me.

Elena starts to babble at her: "Come; come, dearie. Stand right here."

The girl follows (well, _dragged_ by the arm, to be honest) and steps up to the stage, and I feel my heart pound, as it always does, before the boy is chosen.

_It won't be me, think of the math. It won't be me, think of the math. It won't be me, think of the math. It won't be me, think of the math._

I repeat this chant in my head, trying to rationalize with myself. I blame my sister's influence.

"And for the boys!" Elena reaches into the other orb and pulls out a small slip of paper.

_0.3% chance, remember?_

"Our male tribute is… Tophani Salasata!"

I let loose a loud, obscene swear word, which I've only every heard once before in my life, when my mum opened a letter my teacher sent, telling her that I'd been burying other people's books in the vegetable patches again.

Everyone looks at me, and I shrug at them. I turn and walk up to the stage, thinking of all the chances I had _not _to be chosen, and how in at least 332 alternate universes I was _not _chosen, and I hadn't just sworn loudly on national television.

Do the best with what you have, though.

I step up to the stage, and am surprised to see that I'm not actually trembling or anything. I must deal with pressure well then. I look at Elena, and give Bellatrix a sideways glance before letting my eyes glaze over somewhat. My brain whirs, thinking of ways to escape – and/or win the games.

A quick bit of math gives me a 0.56% chance of escape verses a 1.838% chance of survival respectively, so I stay still on the stage, ideas for strategies racing through my head. My main problem is not being noticed, as I'm a runt, so I need to do something to stand out (barring swear words as an option after the response I got earlier).

A clunk echoes through my head as an idea forms.

Elena smiles and asks me "And how old are you then?"

I look at her.

She looks at me.

I shrug.

She blinks.

"And…?"

I raise my eyebrows and point to my throat and shake my head.

She looks confused.

I give her the most condescending look imaginable, which makes her flinch as a voice yells out from the crowd. "He's a mute!"

Mitra's voice. Knew she was clever, she always knows exactly what to do, and seems to read my mind half the time. I need something to make me stand out, and don't people always say I could pass as a mute? Elena looks confused and I'm suddenly glad the Capitol's full of idiots that don't realize that I _just swore _in front of them, so can talk.

I give a nod at her, and turn to face the girl, Bellatrix, who seems to be having an attack of hysteria. I consider breaking my silence and telling her about calm breathing and the dangers of hyperventilation, but I doubt she'd appreciate it much, and I think staying mute makes things easier.

_You dangerous, mute lunatic, _the other part of my brain sighs, sounding exactly like Garami, except it isn't sputtering. A_t least you made the interviews more interesting._

Brightening slightly at the prospect of making Caesar feeling _very _awkward, I reach forwards and shake hands with Bellatrix like asked and revel in the warmth of it. I can actually feel her pulse racing frantically.

_Why isn't mine though? _I wonder, as the anthem plays. _I should be swearing again_

_You haven't got a heart, _Garami's voice tells me in a nasty voice. _You survive on equations and facts alone._

I imagine my logical half shrugging: _F__air enough_

While my parents come in and sob for a bit, my brain is literally whirring inside my head. Well no, not _literally_, but more metaphorically. I don't like people using the wrong words for things, not that I can use any words whatsoever from now until my death. Sad, really. Ideas are forming in my head, some stupid, but most of them are good and logical.

Things I work out as I wait for the train (while I pat my mother on the back as she has started to cry again) include my Cornucopia plan. Run away. Over 50% of deaths occur there, and most people who go into the battle there die. The worst plan would be the 'grab something from the edge and then run like the wind plan' as most of the deaths _are _from that, people thinking that they'll just 'get away' quickly and they don't 'get away' and die. I'll just learn to live off the land and survive like that.

_I__f you can survive, _Garami's voice whispers, as the real Garami weeps openly on my mother's arm.

_If I can, then I will, if I can't, then I won't and that fact won't be changed by worrying about it, _my logical half says, in a tone as if explaining why 1+1=2. _F__act: believing that thinking something is equivalent to doing something doesn't make it true._

"You will try hard to survive, won't you Tophi?" My little brother Pani asks, eyes unnaturally round at the moment. I ignore the use of my irritating name and nod, because it wouldn't make sense _not _to try hard to survive, would it? It's hardwired into our systems through many years of evolution.

"But you're probably going to die, aren't you?" Rakta asks, looking both annoyed and confused at Pani's comment. I nod again, because it's true (1.838% chance, isn't it? Unless something dramatic happens to improve my odds which itself is unlikely). This causes the rest of my family to look upset and angry at Rakta, which seems unfair as all he did was mention the truth for once.

The peacekeeper comes over again, looking thoroughly suspicious. It's probably due to the fact that I have talked in front of him or at him earlier in my life, and now I'm suddenly a 'mute'. I smile again at the prospect of an interview with Caesar, causing the peacekeeper to look even more suspicious. I suppose most people in position look sad or cry. I've never really cried in life, because it doesn't solve any problems. I asked my family and friend why they do it and they gave me the 'you're being weird again Tophani' look. Well, Mitra didn't, but she gets the 'you're being weird again Tophani' look all the time too, except it was more 'you're being weird again _Mitra'_ because her name is Mitra, not Tophani. My name's Tophani.

"Good Luck Tophi" My mother sobs, while my father clutches her arm tightly.

_Fact: wishing someone Good Luck will not create Good Luck. There are no such things as wishes, the Hunger Games saw to that years ago. _I would have told them about this particular thought if I wasn't pretending to be mute.

I wave to them as they leave the room, leaving behind nothing but salty pools of tears. Probably some dead skin and hair too, but that goes without saying, doesn't it?

"Are _you_" the peacekeeper jabs a finger at me "ready to _go" _he begins to mime walking.

I stare at him, wondering why he's acting like I'm deaf or an idiot. I might be mute but I am certainly not unintelligent. I always do well in class, except when I'm biting teachers.

_Again, just the one time, _my brain protests. _Stop bringing that incident up, you make us seem bad._ people

It's probably because I act weird, even when I'm not being a mute. I don't talk much normally, and I ignore most because (rule number 1 of life) people are idiots. So he must be assuming things. Well, two people can make gestures.

I stick my middle finger up at him, giving him a universally known symbol in sign language. He glares at me, but this wasn't just an impulsive decision. I think everything through first and he can't do anything to me. He's too low down the totem pole to sabotage the games and make it harder for me, and he can't hurt a tribute. He'll just have to suffer with me until we get to the train. I point to the door, as if to say _'I thought you said we were going…' _and he glares at me again, half shoving me towards the door. I stumble slightly but remain upright, and begin to walk towards the train.

And most likely my death.

(98.162% likely to be precise)

* * *

_**Authors for this section: Bellatrix Craine written by PrettyBandGirl XD | Tophani Salasata written by Enzonia**_


	5. Volunteers: District 4's Reaping

_One life forged into iron spear,_

_The other hewn in a womb of fear._

_District 4's tributes stand on opposing poles._

* * *

**District 4 | The Reaping of Emily Mcwha**

* * *

I awake to the usual sounds of the waves pounding on the shore. That was my lullaby by night and my wakeup call in the morning; the steady, rhythmic roar calms my heart, frantically beating from my latest nightmare about the Games. It had been such a horrible dream, where I was chained up to a tree and a faceless Career that I vaguely recognized from one of the past Games was slowly killing me with my own knife.

It's times like this when I am glad that I live in District Four, and that my family is lucky enough to have a house on the beach. The waves are as soothing to me as a mother's lullaby is to a baby.

"Ems! It's time to get up!"

My brother's voice interrupts my early morning serenity. Even today, Reaping Day, the people in District Four get up early - the poorest always fish, hoping to get whatever extra catch they can.

I drag myself out of bed and walk to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"There you are Emmy! Breakfast is ready," Mitchell says. My mother is sitting at the table already, munching on a roll of bread and a helping of fish.

Fish. That's all we ever got. After my brother turned 18 seven years ago, he became a fisherman. The fishermen split amongst themselves whatever isn't good enough for the Capital to eat. The good part of that is that it makes our district wealthy when compared to other districts. The bad part is that all we ever get to eat is fish.

I can hear my mother now if I ever say that: _You should be grateful! Do you think those poor starving children in District Twelve care what they eat? No, because they're lucky to even get food out there. Now eat your fish and be grateful._

One of the reasons why I was so indifferent to my mother is because she so selfless. All my life she has raised me to give everything to others and leave nothing but scraps for myself. Why do they deserve the good food any more than I do?

My brother tries to keep the peace between us by sneaking me treats every once and a while to keep me under control, but that doesn't stop my mother and I from getting into fights almost every day. Just about the only good thing she's done for me is sending me to the Training Center.

My uncle – mother's brother - had been a well-known rebel leader back during the Dark Days. He was executed, leaving Mother as his only remaining family. Mother sent my brother and I to the Training Center in case our connection with him got our names pulled from the Reaping bowl. Mother had tried to justify herself with saying that if we won everyone in our district would get food, but Mitchell says that it was proof she loved us very much. I highly doubt that.

The only people I love are Mitchell and my best friend since birth, Zoe. Unlike me, with my wild untamable hair and freckles, Zoe epitomizes beauty. Her bronze locks flow down her waist and perfectly tanned skin. Matched with her stunning eyes, which are the color of the night sky complete with golden stars, she is easily the most beautiful girl in District Four - and in all of Panem, for that matter.

I don't realize I have been eating until my plate is empty. Mitchell takes it to the sink and rinses it.

"You have a few hours until the Reaping. Why don't you go out and do something enjoyable?" Mitchell says to me.

I nod and head out the door. As I walk away from the house, I can hear Mother speaking with a tone of disapproval in her voice. I smirk - like she can control me.

I wander along the street towards Zoe's house; she will be up for swimming, as she loves the ocean almost as much as I. Technically, we're not allowed to swim for any reason other than fishing, but Zoe and I get away with it. Even the Peacekeepers find me endearing.

I have noticed that people in District Four, and I suppose people in general, love to preserve innocence. It's what makes them love me so much. My round face and big eyes are so childlike that people are drawn to me and want to protect me. Despite my appearance, I learned long ago that the world is not filled with the mermaids and unicorns from the legends that parents tell their children before sleep. If you want to survive, you can only care about yourself and a select few others. If you become like my mother and start caring more for others than yourself, then the reality of Panem will rip you apart and burn the pieces.

I learned that long ago, surprisingly from my mother. She was a rebel along with my uncle. She cared too much about the people who got the worst lots in life. She couldn't deal with the aftermath of seeing people die. She is helpless now, depending on Mitchell to take care of her.

That's another unforgivable thing to do. Being completely dependent on another person is highly dangers. Become unaccustomed to surviving without someone to take care of you, and when that person is gone, you follow soon after.

After Zoe is ready, we walk down to the beach. Zoe and I sit in the water, the waves washing over our legs as they crash onto the shore.

"Nervous?" Zoe asks.

"No. I've been waiting for this since my first day of training," I say.

A few days ago, the Head Trainer at the District Four Training Center told me that he wanted me to volunteer this year.

I gather my belongings and exit the locker room at the District Four Training Center. I wave goodbye to a few of the girls I know from rope climbing class and head towards the south exit.

"Emily! Wait," I hear a voice saying.

I turn to see Emmet, the Head Trainer and my personal trainer as well.

"Do you think you'll be volunteering this year?" Emmet asks me, absentmindedly fingering the knife he keeps in his belt.

"I don't know; I haven't thought about it much," I say.

"Well I think you would have a good chance in the Games. Volunteer this year," he said.

I smile to myself. I've never thought much of Emmet, with him understanding my thoughts and actions much too well, but I have to appreciate his ability to see past my charade. Of course, I privately think that his charming smile, dimples and dark brown hair are really hot, but I keep this to myself. I return to the present, focusing on Emmet's words.

"Use your gifts for making people feel sorry for you. Pretend that the girl whose name is drawn is close to you. Cry, do that doe eyes thing you do so well. Hide your abilities. Mags will help you; she's the mentor. Get a low score in training. You can do it," Emmet says.

I nod, and he pats my shoulder before turning to leave.

I shake my head and bring myself out of my flashback. Zoe smiles serenely, her eyes closed - I know from years of spending everyday with Zoe that this is how she calms her nerves. Not that she has anything to worry about; _she_ won't be Reaped. I have a guarantee that I will go into the Games. Not that I'm nervous; no, there is no doubt in my mind that I will be volunteering today, and the only other person who knows is Zoe. She is desperately trying to convince me that I don't have to volunteer, but I'm determined to win. I will not be relying on Mitchell to take care of me until I marry some guy who will do the same. What would happen to me? I would lose my ability to survive alone, that's what.

I will miss Zoe and Mitchell while I'm gone. Heck, I'll even miss Emmet. Nobody in the Capital will know that rather than the helpless little girl I appear to be, I'm a girl who could kill them in a blink of an eye. That's what first helped Emmet see through me.

On my first day, he had been giving me a hard time about how I'd never make it at the Training Center. I got so mad that I threw three knifes at him, pinning him by his shirt to the wall. I used another knife to threaten him, and I used some words that would have gotten me grounded for the rest of life if I had used them in front of my mother. That was the day he realized not to judge by first impressions.

"Emmy! Emmy, are you listening to me?" I hear Zoe say.

"What? Sorry. Just thinking about today," I tell her.

She gives me an understanding look.

"We've been here for a few hours. We have to get ready for the Reaping," Zoe says.

I nod and stand. Zoe wraps me up in a hug.

"Wear something pretty. You want to look good for the Capital," she says, trying and failing to keep her voice from breaking.

I nod and we go our separate ways. I have to remind myself that this would not be the last time I would see her. She will come say goodbye to me after the Reaping.

When I get home, my mother is nowhere to be found, but my brother is sitting at the kitchen table.

"Ems, I was beginning to worry you would never get home. Go get ready," Mitchell says.

I go to my small bedroom and fish in the closet for the dress I had gotten just for today, a simple white dress that makes me look years younger than I am. I bathe, and then slip the frock on. I sit in front of our dirty mirror and try to tame my wild hair, sighing as I look into the mirror. I will never get the Capital to love me; not like they love the most beautiful tributes I see on TV every year. My skin is too tan to be considered fair, but too pale to be perfectly tanned like the other girls in my district. My eyes are a muddy green and my nose is too big; I have a gap between my two front teeth that most people call "cute," but I think just looks hideous. My freckles cover me, making me look like I have some strange disease and my hair- oh my hair! My hair is a horrible cross between brown and red. I had seen girls with red hair who looked beautiful and girls with brown hair who were beautiful, but my hair is an ugly color that reminded me of mud mixed with blood. Not only that but it's so curly that it refuses to cooperate, choosing simply to barbed wire. Don't even get me started on the fact that at 17, I haven't lost any of my baby fat. It's humiliating.

When I manage to get my hair looking halfway decent, I return to the kitchen where Mitchell and Mother are waiting. None of us speak as we walk the short way to the Town Square. When we arrive, I get in line to get my finger pricked. I force a smile at some of the other kids in line when they greet me, but I don't speak to any of them.

"Next!" the Peacekeeper calls.

I step forward and hold out my hand. A sharp prick in the finger later and my blood is wiped on the paper. The Peacekeeper scans it and waves me on to the 17 year old area. There's certain calm in knowing what's going to happen, even if it's something bad. There is no suspense, no waiting for the verdict, just certainty that something's coming.

I find my place where I am every year - I always stand in the place closest to the aisle in the front. Zoe, being a few months younger than I am, is in the Reaping group the year below me, standing closest to the aisle in the back of her age group. This position allows me to be directly behind her. She's already there when I arrive, and she greets me with a strained smile.

"Nervous?" she asks me.

"Not really. I already know what's going to happen," I say.

She turns back towards the stage, but reaches behind her and squeezes my hand with hers.

I look up at the stage and see that the District Four escort, a man named Damian Rivers, is on the stage. Every year Damian dresses like a different fish; I wonder if he realizes that we kill fish here. This year his clothes are purple, contrasting the orange of his skin. He smiles maniacally down at the kids congregated below him, and his teeth gleaming white.

The mayor is also on stage, an old man who is easily over looked because he is so small. I've never really spared him any thought.

My mentor will be Magdalena Delphine. At 48 years old, rumors abound in District Four that she is completely crazy. She had become the victor of the very first Hunger Games when she was 14. Her Games are never shown, so I don't know what happened in them. She doesn't have any family left, and I don't know if she even has any friends.

Magdalena and the mayor are conversing from their seats on stage as Damian still grins excitedly down at all of the kids assembled below him, perhaps wondering who the tributes will be. I turn my attention from the stage to the crowd of boys on the other side of the aisle, searching their faces, wondering who it will be that will go into the Games with me; who it will be that will die. There are some that I recognize from the Training Center, such as the son of a past Victor who I know is planning on volunteering next year. He's good enough with weapons, but he has no brains whatsoever. I don't know his first name, but I know that his last name is Catchrose.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" the mayor calls out.

There are cheers, mainly from the kids training to be Careers, and loudest of all Damian. The film about the mercy of the Capitol blah-blah-blah came on, repeating what everybody in the Districts heard every year.

I tune out the film, and focus on what I know is coming. I will volunteer in just a few minutes. I knew that I will have to look weak, like the helpless little girl everyone thought I was, so I bite my tongue hard to draw tears from my eyes. I pull myself back from my inner thoughts as Damian steps froward to draw the names from the reaping bowls.

"Happy Hunger Games!" Damian calls in his infuriating Capitol accent. "May the odds be ever in your favor! Now for the moment you've all been waiting for! Which lucky lady will be chosen to take part in the Hunger Games this year?"

Damian is smiling maniacally as he reaches into the girls Reaping Bowl. He pulls out a singular slip of paper, and unfolds it slowly for effect.

"Zoe Sorenson!" he calls.

Zoe gives my hand one final squeeze and steps out into the aisle. Immediately, Peacekeepers descend on her and herd her towards the stage. She mounts the steps and stands next to Damian. Her face is calm, because she knows that I'm volunteering this year. She knows she won't go into the arena.

"Any volunteers?" Damian asks.

I step forward into the aisle. I force my voice to shake as I say, "I volunteer!"

Zoe steps down and I walk forward towards the stage. As we pass, she gives me tight hug. I hug her back.

"Good luck Emmy, remember that I love you," Zoe says.

"I love you too," I say.

This will add to my charade. Whether this was her intention or not, I will never know.

I walk up the steps, being careful to stumble and make one of the Peacekeepers steady me. I shakily walk up to be next to Damian, who beams at me as if I had already won.

"Perfect! What is your name?" he asks me.

"Emily Mcwha," I tell him, my voice shaking.

"Well Emily, I'm sure you're very excited to be in the Games," he says. He quickly pulls the attention away from me, because I have just forced a tear to roll down my cheek.

"Now for the boys," Damian says.

He reaches into the boys Reaping Bowl and pulls out a slip of paper.

"Jan Fitson!" He calls out. A young boy walks to the stage as Damian continues. "Any volunteers?"

There are a few moments of silence before a voice, laced with desperate excitement, calls, "I volunteer!"

At first, I think that the boy who walks forward is the son of the Victor, something Catchrose, but I realize that the boy I know from the Training Center is more muscular than this boy, more physically intimidating. The boy is tall and slim, with floppy blonde hair. Not intimidating at all, an easy kill. I realize that this must be something Catchrose's twin. The little boy and the volunteer pass without acknowledging each other, and the volunteer stands on the other side of Damian.

"Wonderful! What's your name?" Damian asks.

"Francis Catchrose," the boy says. His voice is blank without any emotion.

So, I was right about being related to the victor and the boy from the Training Center. Up close, I realize that the boy is scruffy, his hair disheveled, and his clothes grimy. He wears grass stains on his knees, with tear streaks on his face. I have to stop my nose from wrinkling in disgust. Is that really the impression he wants to make on the Capital?

Damian asks us to shake hands. His face is blank, showing no empathy for me, so I force my eyes to widen with fright and I make my lower lip tremble slightly, hoping to stir some sympathy from him. Unfortunately, he turns away before I can see if it worked.

Peacekeepers usher us inside, and it's time to say goodbye to our families. First in to see me is my mother. She gives me a few words of advice, a quick hug, and then she leaves. That's all our relationship calls for. Mitchell follows, wrapping me up in one of his bone-crushing hugs as my feet are lifted off the floor.

"Why did you volunteer Emmy?" Mitchell asks me, his voice rough from tears I hadn't known he had been shedding.

"I had too. I couldn't let Zoe go into the Games. She wouldn't have been able to make it past day one. I've had training. I'll come back," I say.

It's better to let Mitchell think that I went into the Games because I cared about Zoe, and not know that I had been planning this for days.

Although most people think I am the helpless one in our family, I am surely the strongest. Sure, Mitchell can provide for our family, and is one of the strongest physically in District Four, but he needs me to make the world seem like a better place sometimes. I almost feel bad for leaving him to fend for both himself and mother, but I have to do this. I will come back, I know it.

"Ems, you're too brave for your own good," Mitchell says.

He squeezes me in his arms and presses his face into my hair. I do not cry. I cannot. Not when Mitchell needs me to be strong for him.

Mitchell tries to blink back his tears, but a few escape and roll down his cheeks. "Emily," he says, his voice somber, more so than I have ever heard it. The use of my full name, which he never uses, only emphasizes the seriousness of this situation. "You have to promise me that you'll come back. Promise me that when you are in the arena that you'll think of me and Zoe and do everything in your power to return to us. We need you."

I nod, not breaking the eye contact between us.

"Good," Mitchell says.

He opens his mouth to continue, but a Peacekeeper opens the door and tells him that it's time for him to leave.

"I love you Ems," Mitchell says.

He gives me one last squeeze before he turns and follows the Peacekeeper out of the door.

The door reopens almost immediately and Zoe runs into the room. Her eyes are shining with tears, making her look tragically beautiful.

"Oh Emmy, you crazy girl! You should have let me go in!" Zoe shouted.

She drops to her knees, and sobs rack her body. I crouch next her to, and wrap my arms around her slim frame.

"It's alright Zoe. I have a plan. I've been training for a long time. I'll come back, you'll see," I say.

She looks up at me. Her eyes are filled with a hopeless desperation.

"I wish I could go in instead of you," Zoe says. "I don't do anyone any good. You help your family survive. Everybody loves you. The only thing I'm good for is looking pretty."

"Don't say that. I planned to volunteer. I want to go into the games. I would rather go in to save you," I say.

A flicker of affection shines in her eyes as she replies: "Come back Emmy. I can't lose my sister."

She wraps me up in a crushing hug, and we stay there until the Peacekeeper forces her out. I drag myself up onto the couch and sit with my eyes closed. The ocean is too far away to hear, but I imagine that I'm still in my bed at home, the waves soothing me as I fall asleep. I wonder if my new district partner, Francis, loves the ocean as much as I do. I wonder if he is using the same technique I am to calm himself now. Does he even need to be calmed? It is not often that I find a person that I can't read, but Francis Catchrose does not let his emotions show at all. What is he thinking? Is he scared? Does he regret volunteering? Why did he volunteer in the first place? What does he think of me?

I am so immersed in my thoughts that I don't realize that another person was in the room until they lay a hand on my shoulder. My eyes fly open, and I see Emmet standing before me, his hand on my shoulder.

"Emily, are you alright?" he asks me.

"Yeah, just a little nervous," I say.

"Emily, this may be only my second year as a trainer, but I've been alive for 19 years. I know enough to know that you are a lot more than nervous," Emmet says.

Emmet's knack for guessing my thoughts and emotions has always unnerved me, but now I'm glad for someone I can spill all of my feelings to.

"Well, I know that I have a good chance of coming back, but I told Mitchell and Zoe that I was for sure coming back. I don't they'll be so devastated, and I won't be there to make them feel better. You know, Mitchell; he'll never be able to keep going if I die. I don't even know what Zoe would do. I have to come back, and I'm scared that I won't." I say all in a single breath.

"Emily-Ems, you will come back. I know you, and you are no doubt the best fighter I have ever seen. Even if you do die in the games, I'll make sure that Mitchell and your mother and Zoe all get enough food. Everything will work itself out, you'll see," Emmet says.

I nod.

The door opens and a Peacekeeper motions for Emmet to leave.

"I'll see you when you get back, Ems," Emmet concludes.

He walks out of the room as door shuts, clicking with a finality that sends shivers up my spine.

* * *

**District 4 | The Reaping of Francis Catchrose**

* * *

"So the Academy says you're not ready for the Games this year?" barks my father.

"Yes dad," my twin brother murmurs sullenly, his eyes inspecting the flimsy Capitol-made china that graces our breakfast table. It was a gift to my father from his mentor after he won the 12th Hunger Games.

"Hmph," is the only response from the aging victor.

Everything that had once won him the Games has long since deteriorated. He's barely recognizable as the handsome victor who bloodied his hands with the most kills in living memory. Now the muscles are gone, replaced with a beer belly that strains to escape his shirt, his golden skin mottled and laced with wrinkles and his chestnut-colored locks dyed fake bleach-blonde. Only the eternal anger and thirst for blood remain unsullied by the years, traits prevalent among all veterans of the Hunger Games.

A loaded silence fills the breakfast room and I hear every tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. I keep my eyes focused remotely on a spot a couple of feet above the doorway, counting the prissy flowers on the wallpaper, wishing I could be anywhere else in Panem. I can feel my mother shifting anxiously next to me and no doubt her eyes are focused on my dad, waiting for an explosion.

"I'll train harder. I'll do it next year you know I will."

The only person who can ever get my arrogant twin to speak with any kind of fear or respect is our father. Fulvian runs his hand through the blonde hair nervously as he waits for an answer.

"Well, I waited till eighteen before I volunteered too," muses father slowly. Everyone relaxes. "Maybe it's even better this way; extra training time."

"I'm already top of my class for everything. There isn't that much more they can do," laughs Fulvian. The tension dissipates as quickly as it had formed. My father's rage has been avoided for now. We aren't always so lucky, be it me or my mother and sometimes even Fulvian; we have all fallen victim to his anger at least once in our lives, and it's never pretty.

Fulvian's arrogance is firmly back in place now, though, and father becomes more annoying than terrifying. The staple of today's breakfast conversation, and every other day, is my brother boasting about his achievements at the Career Academy. Today he is particularly unbearable, clearly overcompensating after the great disappointment of not being able to volunteer this year. Unfortunately most of what he's saying is true; he is the best and the district's next big hope of winning the games.

I don't know how two twins could turn out so differently. Sure we're both tall and share the same floppy blonde hair, but he's all hard muscle and arrogance, a typical Career. I am more lithe than muscled and hate the name Career; I never enrolled in the Academy, much to my father's disappointment. The Games always seemed nightmarish when I saw them on the TV, and I've fallen out of my family's world since then.

I'm brought back from my thoughts by my father's fist banging against the table. I flinch but it seems that he was just enthusiastically recounting some fight from his Hunger Games.

"...I had this boy from 1, both hands round his neck like this, but then his district partner was running at me, so I got my knife out and waited till the last minute and turned to face her and she ran right into it and then..."

We have all heard this particular story a million times but my mother still makes the right noises of shock and surprise as we hear about my father ripping someone's throat out. Fulvian listens too while shoveling down bacon, grunting with laughter at the particularly gruesome parts. I wince. The only time my father seems alive is when he is recounting the past victories of his Games, his ruddy face reaching an unprecedented maroon color and the light of bloodlust tainting his dull eyes.

"Okay," My father's chair scraped back loudly on the wooden floor. "I need to get to the justice building before the Reaping to talk to Mags."

"Why are you talking to that crazy old woman?" Fulvian asked. My father is friendly with a lot of the other victors from 4, but Mags is not one of them. People say she's crazy, I'm not so sure. Maybe she's just having a hard time living with what she did in the Games; I think that's normal.

"I need to find out who's volunteering this year. The batty women usually won't tell me anything, but it's worth a try."

"The Mark's girl is reaping age now," my mother volunteers.

"No; it's confirmed she will be waiting till next year. Keep an eye on that one, Fulvian."

My brother nods absorbing the new information, still eating. Father nods a brisk farewell and is marching out of the room. In the wake of his noisy departure we are quiet. I listen to my mother sipping tea and my brother's fork scraping on his plate as I finish my own breakfast at break neck speed before getting up.

"I'm going out."

It is unnecessary to say more than that as no one really cares what I do - as long as it doesn't threaten their twisted idea of what a perfect family should be. My mother doesn't even look up; just nods absentmindedly. My brother finally stops eating to look up at me, a malicious glint in his eye.

"Going to see your boyfriend?"

"No what are you-" I splutter confused before I realize he must be referring to Harris. How he found out about my friendship with the boy who works on the docks is anyone's guess. It's very unusual for my brother to take any interest in my life, and I prefer it that way; he's at his nicest when he's ignoring me. When he picks up on something it is for one of two reasons: He's going to take the piss out of me, or he can get me in trouble with it. This time it seems he could do both.

"What, did you two have a lover's tiff?"

"Shut up," My cheeks are burning red. It's not because Fulvian is being a dick (although he is), it's because I know he holds all the cards to ruin everything.

"What are you talking about Fulvian?" My mother looks confused. My twin and I lock eyes over the table as I silently beg him to keep quiet but he just grins at me and opens his mouth to tell on me.

"Mom don't listen to him he's just-" I try desperately but she just shushes me.

"Francis here has got himself a little friend. He works as a fisherman at the docks. Francis sneaks out most mornings to go and meet him."

"Francis, is this true? You know it is not appropriate to be spending time with lower class citizens when you're a Victor's son. What do you have in common with a fisherman anyway?" She pronounces the word like it might disease her tongue as she speaks it. Fulvian smirks triumphantly and my mother looks expectant, waiting for an explanation even though she's already decided it will be inadequate. I guess I have to try.

"Harris, he's been helping me practice so I can get a job on one of the boats too, you know, teaching me how to use a fishing spear and stuff. In return, I help him load the boats in the mornings." I gabble out quickly.

"What? That's ridiculous. You don't need a job, you have all the money you need already. The very idea of you becoming a fisherman is absurd; what would people say?"

"No you don't understand." I really don't know how to explain. If I get a job, I will have my own money and I can apply to get a house by myself. In short, I can escape. But I can already feel my golden idea being tarnished by their disapproval. "I want a job so I can move out."

"Move out?" My mother lets out a little laugh. "Why would you do that? No, no you will stay right here and-"

"And what?" I yell. The silence after my shout is deafening and oppressive as I glance around nervously, scared but unwilling to take it back. My brother and mother just stare at me in shock like they've never properly seen me before. They don't know about my temper. I usually run out of the house when I get mad and throw spears for a while, imagining it's their faces. _Damn _it, they don't know me at all! "Live quietly in the shadows of your lives, just a mild nagging annoyance on your existence? I have had enough of all this happy family's bullshit! Why do you even want me to stay?"

My mother just stands there, opening and closing her mouth like a drowning fish. The silence stretches on, telling me more than any of their words.

"We don't," my brother says suddenly. My mother starts to protest but he continues yelling over her getting up from the table to square up with me. "Leave. I couldn't care less."

"Now, now. Calm down. Fulvian, sit down, and Francis, you're not going anywhere." My mother flutters nervously between us. "What would I tell the neighbors; my son ran anyway to become nothing more than another poor worker on the docks? No, no that won't do at all."

"Is that all you care about still? What people will think? Whatever, I'm leaving." As I turn away I hear Fulvian mutter, "Good." I already know how he feels, and I thought I had accepted it, but the rejection still stings.

"You can't go." My mother says quietly but firmly. I turn around to try and explain to her as best as I can that I am really going, but I am shocked by the stony look in her eyes.

"I won't let you go." Her voice is like marble chips scraping together. "We will not be the laughing stock of Victor's Village because you're throwing some silly temper tantrum. Your father has a reputation to uphold; the family has a reputation to uphold!"

"Reputation? Reputation? Of what, being a murderer? I'm going and you can't stop me."

"Hey, our father followed a righteous path to victory-" Fulvian protests.

"Do you even have a mind in there or has it been drowned by all this self-righteous bullshit they indoctrinate you with at the Career Academy? Wake up Fulvian, the arena is going to be worse than you can possibly imagine, and you will probably die." I stare at his blank eyes searching for some untainted part of his mind that sees the truth in my words.

"Just because you're too much of a coward to become a Career yourself..."

"Not wanting to kill people unless I have to is _not_ being a coward!"

"Hey, I'm just telling you what dad said."

"You're lying."

"I'm not. It was my first day at the Career Academy and for some reason, I still cared enough to miss you. I said, 'Dad, Dad why isn't Francis coming too?' and he said, 'Because Francis is a coward, but not to worry because you will make up for him.' That's what I've been doing my whole life - making up for the disappointment you are to us all!"

I stare at him, my mind reeling. I remember those days when we were ten and Fulvian kept begging me to go to the Academy with him. We were close then, before the Academy filled him up with their propaganda, before he found new Career friends who encouraged him to think what he was doing was right, and before being the absolute best at everything went to his head. A coward; _a coward_? Just for not wanting to be one of their Career clones with no mind of their own; just for not wanting to become like him? He was long lost to me. I turned away and left.

"You won't have any money; you don't have anywhere to go. You won't get your silly job either, I'll have your father use his influence with the Capitol officials to make sure you'll never work in District 4. You'll have no choice but to come home eventually."

I close the door on my mother's words and run as fast as I can away from the house, from Victors Village, and then nowhere in particular but just running away. As the initial anger and hurt faded, the stupidity of what I had just done started to sink in. I had left all my things at the house - not that I owned anything particularly special, but there were essential things I had left behind in my quick flight. Food, clothes, money; I had none of these things.

I slow to a jog then just aimlessly wander around District 4. It's a big place, but somehow I still find myself gravitating towards the shoreline and the empty docks. I guess it's because in my mind, it's the place I associate with Harris and consequently calmness and understanding. We may be the same age, but he always seems to radiate a kind of wise vibe and always seems to know what to do. But the problem is, Harris isn't here right now; he and everyone else who works on the boats are gone, sailed away into the ocean and out with their haul until just before the reaping. I suppose I'll just stick around here for a while and wait.

The wooden boards creak as I sit down on the edge of boardwalk, feet dangling into space. Unfortunately, the sparkling ocean is not enough to calm me down; the familiar salty air is not going to feed me, or clothe me, or find me somewhere to live. I try to regain some control on the situation; I still have the plan, although I'm having to instigate it earlier than I thought I would. "Get a job" is the first stage of that plan; I'll have to talk to one of the Capitol's job assignment officials for that. As for getting a place to live; it will take several months - if not longer - to organize that. I suppose I could ask Harris to let me stay at his place for now, but his house is already full to the brim with his five younger siblings. Besides, he's already done too much for me.

The very first time we met about two years ago, he stopped Fulvian and his gang of conceited Careers beating the crap out of me. I was pretty messed up at the time, ignored by my family but forbidden from making friends with any decent people, but he made me see that there was a possibility of escape. He promised to help train me so I could get a job and escape from my family. At the time, Harris had been a couple of weeks away from finally getting a job himself and dropping out of school. But Harris getting a job was no surprise, considering everyone on the male side of his family had been anglers. I, on the other hand - the only skill I could offer was running, although I was quite quick whenever being chased by my brother's gang. That isn't particularly helpful skill for a fisherman, however.

But after all this time, I think I can use the fishing spear at least as well as Harris; perhaps I'm slightly better with nets than him, not that he would ever admit it. But without him I would have had no way out; I would have gone crazy. I can't ask him to help me anymore, it wouldn't be fair. I feel close to crazy right now though. I had not meant to start my new life in a panicked state, jobless and homeless.

Oh God, I'm really homeless. I lean my forehead on the railing pressing into the cold metal like it could somehow numb the mess of emotions in my mind and help me see some clarity.

The sound of someone's approaching feet pounding purposefully into the wooden boards makes me open my eyes. White Peacekeeper boots are all that I see, and I just watch them for a while before I really wake up. Then I leap to my feet because, as if my wish had been personified, the green badge on his left pocket tells me this is not just any Peacekeeper, this is one of the Capitol's job assignment officials.

"Um, hi, sir can I talk to you for a second?" Hi? What the hell am I saying? This wasn't some genie in the bottle that was going to grant me a job because I wanted one; this was a Peacekeeper who has no reason in the world to help me out. But for some reason, I feel like this coincidence means the world is on my side, and I've got to at least try.

"Yes?" He sounds not pleased to be interrupted on his break as he impatiently pushes up his visor so he can glare more directly at me.

"Are there any, um, vacancies for fishermen at the moment?"

"You have to go to the jobs assignment office for that kind of thing," He is already flicking his visor back on and starting to walk away as I hurry after him.

"Wait, please. The office is closed today and I really need to find out soon and I just-" I can hear the desperation in my own voice and know I've blown it. Then he stops walking and glances at me again like he's seeing something different. I just stare back confused.

"I know you from somewhere. Fulvian? Something with an F?"

"Francis; Fulvian's my brother," I answer hesitantly, eying him like he's suddenly going to arrest me for running away from home. But I'm pretty sure he can't do that, if he even knows, which in all likelihood he doesn't. All the same, my feet position themselves to leg it at a moment's notice.

"Right, right, the twins. Your dad's a Victor isn't he? I've been to a few parties at your house, very hospitable family. Very hospitable indeed." He smiles distantly like he was remembering some cherished memory before shaking himself slightly to return to reality. "Right I'll see what I can do."

I couldn't believe my luck. Finally being a victor's son is actually helping me with something. This particular Capitol worker must have been at one of the lavish parties my parents throw to suck up to the peacekeepers and generally show off their wealth. The officer whips out some kind of portable information device with a glowing screen, tapping away at digits. I fidget nervously in the silence while I wait, hoping against hope there is something.

"Right, there is-" A loud bleeping noise interrupts him. He frowns at the device for a few seconds, looks up at me, frowns at the device again then shuts it off all together and puts it away.

"I'm sorry there are no current jobs available in the fishing sector." His voice has switched from vague familiarity back to corporate clone.

"But you just said-"

"I was mistaken." He gives me a brisk nod and turns away.

"Fine, not fishing. Anything, do you have - anything?" I follow him, I would take anything right now, even gutting fish in one of the factories, but I already know what his answer will be.

"None at the moment, I'll let you know if-"

"Check your device; you haven't checked your device-" I block his way now, knowing I'm treading dangerous ground but I can't stop myself.

"Son, I'm going to have to ask you to take a step back-" In his tone of voice is a warning, his hands twitch at his weapon.

"Let me check it then-" I make a lunge for the device sticking out of his pocket, as if by proving this lying man wrong I can somehow solve all my problems. But his patience has been spent and he grabs my arm, twisting it painfully behind my back and making me freeze in agony.

"Go home son." He pushes me roughly away, leaving me bent double and gasping for air as he walks briskly away, adjusting his visor.

"You can tell my dad he can fuck off!" By the time I get enough air to shout, he is probably too far away to hear. I get some odd looks from the few passersby and disrupt the seagulls from their perches. A kind of pounding fever has taken over me as I glare around at the onlookers, breathing heavily, before turning on my heel and getting the hell out of there.

I head up hill, past the houses and the docks, to the edge of the district where the squat factories sit and the dusty grass ends sharply in cliffs high above the waves. The district parameter is visible in the distance when I finally stop, red in the face and clutching a stitch. The path follows a few meters away from the cliff edge; there is no fence, apparently one of the few things the Capitol are okay with is us doing is falling to our deaths. I sink to my knees in the scratchy grass, letting out tearless angry sobs.

What am I going to do now? If I thought the situation this morning was bad, now it had hit a new level of desperate. Without a job, I have no plan, no possible way to try and support myself. In short, no life - unless I go back. No, no I'd rather die. I'd rather slowly starve to death on the streets of the district. The next time I go in that house again will be as a corpse, because my life is nothing in that house - worse than nothing. I imagine crawling pathetically back to my smug parents with no hope for a better future, with no company but Fulvian.

Maybe it would be better to end this quickly today. I turn my head slowly to stare at the edge of the cliff top, the only way out of the district that was not guarded by an electric fence. I get up from my knees and edge closer, feeling the wind battering me as if it was driving me forward, agreeing with me. There was no fixing this situation now, nothing I could be but a permanent burden on my only friend.

I spread my fingers to feel the rushing wind and stare one last time at the place where the sea fades into the sky until my tear-distorted eyes can't really tell the difference anymore. It seems an appropriate day to die when twenty three other young people will be condemned to death - except they won't have chosen it.

"Hey you, boy! What are you doing so close to the edge?"

The rough voice of the aged factory worker almost makes me fall off the cliff accidently as I jump out of my skin. I should do it quickly before she can stop me.

"Don't you know it's almost one o' clock? You'll be late for the reaping! Stop messing around and get to the town square now. Imagine if today you're the one who's called and you're not there. Then there will be hell to pay."

The old lady starts to hobble away. What does it matter if they call my name? I've already decided I'm going to die. My foot dislodges some rocks and they fall sickeningly into the emptiness, making me gasp another quick sob. Then I freeze. Not physically, but mentally, because a crazy idea has just popped into my head.

I could volunteer for the Hunger Games.

I'm going to die either now or later, and this way I could at least take the place of whatever poor kid is reaped - and maybe, just maybe, there is even a chance I could win. As a victor, I'd have my own house and freedom, and I could even leave District 4 if I wanted. The future suddenly spreads dizzyingly out in front of me again. It's either death or a slim chance of not dying. It doesn't take me long to decide. I take one last look down at the jagged rocks beneath the bottom of the cliff, turn, and run.

"Hey mind where you're going!"

I push past the elderly women as I run back down the path driven on by something that was not quite hope, but maybe a desperate last chance. I am running flat out pounding my way from the edge of the district to the center, willing my feet to run faster and get there on time. Factories, then houses, then shops all fly past me in a blur of rushing wind and the sound of my own galloping heartbeat.

When I finally skid around the corner into the square, I find the huge clock ticking away the time saying it's still a minute to one. I sprint forward to join the last few people getting registered, panting and sweaty, running one shaking hand under my eyes to wipe away the tears and throwing my hair off my sweaty forehead. I barely notice the pain when the peacekeeper takes the blood sample but I do notice all the looks I'm getting. Everyone is in their most formal attire, and here I am sweaty and disheveled; no doubt with grass stains on my jeans and tear streaks on my face.

As I slow to a fast walk to my place with the other seventeen year-olds, I glance around nervously for any sign of my family. I catch sight of my mother, thankfully out of reach with the other parents, looking furious. No doubt it's my appearance and what-would-people-think instinct kicking in that's bothering her. Next to her is my father. I don't even dare meet his glare.

I stand nervously as the reaping begins; first there's the video shown every year echoing around the silent square. It's all about strength and the great honor of being a tribute. I don't feel very strong as I wait for the moment I can yell the fateful words, 'I volunteer'. I imagine my father's face when his 'coward' of a son volunteers and let out a little laugh. I don't suppose he'll be pleased; I'm hoping for shock and horror. Everyone around me looks at me as if I've gone crazy as the out of place noise slips from my lips; well, maybe I have.

District 4's escort, Damian Rivers, steps forward to the microphone as the last of the film's music fades away, his high heeled boots tapping a lazy rhythm on the stage. This year he's dressed in purple, which contrasts badly with his orange Capitol tan. From the scaly material his suit is made of and the fins he's sporting, I assume his outfit is representing some exotic fish never seen here in the district, where fish is caught for eating - not decoration. He is talking so slowly it's painful; why can't he just skip the spiel of Capitol catchphrases we hear every year and get on and call the names already? I tap out a nervous rhythm on my jeans as if I can somehow will him to speed it up.

"Shut up."

An angry whisper comes from my left. A couple of kids over stands my brother, looking venomous. My heartbeat reaches a sickening new height, but I force myself to stop my hands and focus instead on the stage.

It's time for the girls.

"Now for the moment you've all been waiting for; which lucky lady will be chosen to take part in the Hunger Games this year?"

I scan the girls' side of the square; hundreds of faces, one of which would soon be my competitor. Will it be some trembling child or a viscous Career? The answer to this could change the outcome of my Games. Paper crackling in the microphone as Damian unfolds the slip pulls my attention back to him.

"Zoe Sorenson," he calls triumphantly, showing his teeth in an expression that doesn't have enough emotion to be called a smile. My eyes flicker over with the crowd, searching frantically until I see the movement of a stunningly beautiful girl looking slightly nervous step out of the mass of faces. It feels like such a waste for such beauty to die so young, but as her quiet footsteps ring out in the square, she keeps her eyes down. She doesn't seem quite as scared as she should be considering she's no Career.

"Any volunteers?"

She is standing with a quiet elegance next to Damian now, still looking too relaxed. I search the rest of the crowd trying to see if the reason she's not scared is because-

"I volunteer."

My stomach sinks as Zoe steps off the stage. The girl who had spoken steps out into the path to the stage hesitantly. A mass of curly red-brown hair obscures her face as she moves forward to embrace Zoe. She must just want to save her friend; the stirrings of pity manage to penetrate the layers of emotion I am feeling right now, but just as I am starting to reconsider, I realize I recognize her pale features.

She's a Career.

As she tells Damian her name with a shaking voice, the cameras magnifying her tearful face on the huge screens, I know there is something else going on besides saving her friend. It just seems a little calculated too me; you can never trust a Career. The drama momentarily distracts me from my nervous anticipation, and with a jolt of surprise, I realize it's the boys turn already.

"Jan Fitson," Damian calls. The boy who won't be going into the arena steps forward from somewhere behind me in the lower age brackets. I watch him walk up to the stage looking more than a little scared. I could just let him do it. I could just keep my mouth shut and go back to…to what? No, I have no choice.

"Any volunteers?" Damien asks hopefully. There's a few beats of silence as Jan stares desperately out into the pitiless crowd.

"I volunteer," I yell with determination before I can give myself a chance to change my mind.

The only sound for a moment is the shifting of fabric and shoes as everyone around me turns to stare. Face upon face of confusion, anger, and sometimes even concern surround me, but no one looks worse than Fulvian as I push past him to make my way to the stage. There is something more sinister than anger in his expression; something deeper founded, but there is nothing he can do now.

There is nothing anyone can do now. My heart is beating out of my chest and a strange feeling of elation takes over me. That's it, decision made, it's out of my hands now. I was going to do this; I know I can do this and if I can't, it's too late to change my mind now. I finally ascend to the stage amongst the growing noise of whispers, which are quickly stifled when Damian starts to speak.

"Wonderful." He gives me one of his typically meaningless smiles. When he turns to face me I can see where his makeup has collected in his wrinkles and little beads of sweat have formed from the hot sun. "What's your name?"

From up here I can see the whole square of faces staring up at me at once. I can see most of District 4 too, in the background - from the cliff tops to the beach, and it all seems to be telling me I am doing the right thing. Somewhere far away I'm telling him my name. My drifting eyes search the landscape in front of me, savoring the moment, the beginning of a new life.

The roar of the crowd confuses me. It sounds like the ocean rushing in to wash everyone away until I notice that it's the hands of the people of the district making the noise. I shake hands with the girl I will shortly be trying to kill and before I know what's happening, we're ushered away into the cool hallways of the justice building. I'm pushed into one room and the girl with the calculated tears into another before we even get to do so much as exchange a word.

The room is too similar to the living room of what used to be my house. It shares the same Capitol style of lavish furnishings and gives me the same oppressive, trapped feeling. The only window is frosted into white blankness, as if nothing else exists outside this room. I can't help pacing the circumference of the room like a caged tiger, still too hyped up to sit down. Thumping footsteps on the other side of the door accompanied by angry yells make me stop. I slowly back further away, eyes locked on the door.

"What the hell do ya think you're doing?" My dad bursts into the room, a force of visibly trembling anger. The room seems to shrink with his arrival and the air grows harder to breathe. My mother closes the door quietly behind them.

"I, I just-" I stutter out but he cuts right over me.

"First all this ridiculous shit this morning about getting a job, a job you think I'd fucking let you work like you were the son of some common wretch? And now you've determined not only to make fools of us all in front of District 4 but the whole of Panem!"

Each word is spat out with venom I would not have thought possible.

"Volunteering. Volunteering when you're not even trained! You know next to nothing; for Christ's sake, you'll be dead in seconds. How do you think that will reflect on me; how do you think I, the best fucking victor Four has ever seen, will explain why my son is a useless, bloodbath tribute? Well go on, say something for yourself, you spineless boy."

I don't speak. I open and close my mouth a few times - this is not how it was supposed to go. Laughing at his rage remotely was easy enough, but face to face is another matter. I thought this was over, that I had closed the door on being yelled at like I was less than a piece of shit on the carpet. I clutch my temples and try to block it all out, shaking my head like I can deny their very existence.

"I'm very disappointed. Very disappointed indeed." My mother's voice is clipped and short, so angry she can barely speak. "Did you even think about how this would affect us? I would never have thought you could be this selfish Francis. You do realize Fulvian won't be able to compete anymore because of this. The Academy has many volunteers vying for a chance to compete next year, and why should they give one family two chances at it, hmm? He was too angry to ever want to see your face again, and honestly, I feel the same. But _someone_ needed to come here and give you a piece of our mind. You have ruined his chance, the chance he _earned_, without a second thought!"

She turns away, letting my father finish as if she can't even bear to look at me.

"You are just determined to ruin us with your eternal stupidity! How can you stand there and look me in the eye when you are trashing our family's reputations and our futures? You still haven't got anything to say then, boy?"

As I look at them with their accusing eyes and complete lack of care for my wellbeing, I feel the purest hatred I have ever felt for anyone in my life. Not one trace of family love or duty remains.

"Get out." I say, quietly at first.

"What?" My mother looks confused.

"I said get out!" I scream in their faces, standing up to my full height, actually a few inches taller than my dad.

"How dare you use that tone with me; how dare you command me? I am your father and-"

"No you're fucking not. You are not my fucking father anymore!" I yell so loudly my voice cracks. I'm as red as him now as we stand face to face, toe to toe. He breaks eye contact first.

"Maybe you're right. Yeah, maybe you're right." He turns away, carelessly grabbing my mother's arm and pulling her roughly behind him to the door. He shoves her through first before turning to spit his final words over his shoulder. "I'm telling you this, son: You better find somewhere else for them to send your coffin after you die, 'cause it sure as hell ain't going to be under my roof."

I rush forward and slam the heavy door on my last sight of him walking away, mother in tow, the speed of the closing door too slow for me. I want to hurry up and never see them again. The encounter almost makes me rethink trying to win this, but I will damn well not give them the satisfaction of being right. They have no idea who I am, so it only follows they have no idea that I am capable of winning this. I know I am.

I am actually trembling with anger, facing away from the door, palms of my hands pressing stars into my eyes battling the coming tears. I've barely been alone for a minute when the door opens again. I'm on the defensive, thinking they've returned to wound me further - or maybe even Fulvian has decided to come in and beat me to a pulp after all. But my face relaxes as soon as I see the familiar back of Harris closing the door carefully behind him. He looks so pleasantly out of place in the plush and expensive room of the justice building, with his old black boots leaving a slight trail of dirt on the carpet.

"Harris thank God you're here." I gabble in one breath. "My parents were just here and it was awful and they were so mad at me and-"

"Wait a moment. What makes you think I'm not just as mad too?" Harris' voice is full of a repressed anger I have never heard there before. I falter.

"What the hell do you think you're doing Francis? Are you crazy? You know you can't win this, right?" He yells the words I have already heard once, and it pushes me over the edge. Tears start falling uncontrollably from my stinging eyes as I angrily try and brush them away while turning from him. I expected it from my parents; I could expect it from everyone, but not Harris. I sob silently, shoulders shaking for maybe a minute before I hear a resigned sigh and Harris shifting his feet awkwardly.

"Hey. Hey, I didn't mean to...please don't be upset," I feel his warm hand on my shoulder as I struggle to control my sobs. "I just don't understand, Francis. You hate Careers and everything they stand for and now you go and do this? I just don't get it. You were so close to getting that job; we were going to go to the assignment office this weekend remember? Why are you throwing away your life in some sick game?"

"Because I haven't got a life to throw away anymore." My voice is thick with sobs as I turn to face him. "It all, all went wrong. Fulvian found out and he told my mother, and then we had this huge argument and she said I couldn't do it. I went to the docks and talked to the job assignment officer but my father had already told him not to let me have one and I didn't have anywhere to go, and I didn't know what to do."

Spilling everything I've been holding inside all day is too much, and I'm crying too much to continue now. Harris walks over to the other side of the room to get me a glass of water. A few seconds later, I am gulping water between sobs. When I'm coherent, and the sobs are more like little hiccups he continues his questions.

"So why did that mean you volunteered?"

"Because if I win this, I'll have everything. I can have my own house and I can leave for the Capitol forever if I want and I'll never have to see any of them ever again," I try to explain the desperate vision in my mind.

"Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. There are a thousand other solutions before volunteering! You could have stayed with me-"

"You really don't have the room," He considers for a second before shaking his head free of my logic.

"Maybe your right about that but for God's sake we could have figured something out. Anything, _anything_ would be better than this!" He sweeps his hand across the room as if encompassing the whole situation.

"It'll be okay," I try for a smile. He looks so upset right now I can't bear it.

"If you win," He says hollowly.

"I will win. You know I can win," He looks doubtful. It panics me. "I need you to believe I can win, because if _you_ don't, I don't think I can-"

I'm clutching my head again, finding myself climbing to the hysterical once more.

"Alright, alright," He pulls my hands off to my head to my sides once more. "I believe you can win. I mean, you have to win now. You have to come back."

He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. A weight lifts off my heart that I didn't even know had been there, and I'm on the road to calm again. With his simple Harris magic, he has brought me back to sanity again.

"Of course I do."

"Good then. Agreed," He somehow finds a grin to plaster onto his face one last time. Now that all the explanations are over, I realize I just want to have one last normal conversation with him before everything changes.

"Harris, you know-"

"Time's up!" A Peacekeeper opens the door abruptly. I'm panicking once again because it's over, and I don't want to be alone again.

"It's okay; you'll be okay," Harris calls back to me, trying to remain calm for both of us - although he looks a bit panicked himself as he's pushed out of the door. "You promised."

"Harris!" I call after him, but the door is closed between us before he can respond. The last glimpse I catch of him is through the gap between two white suited Peacekeepers, a brave smile still stretched across his face. But a promise is a promise, so I will be seeing him again after all this is over.

After I have won.

* * *

**_Authors for this section: Emily Mcwha written by some managed mischief | Francis Catchrose written by CapitolEffie_**


	6. Sins of the Father: District 5's Reaping

_He sings a sad song of remembrance,  
_

_Sins of the father, unable to forget.  
_

_District 5's son shoulders the fears of his foundation  
_

* * *

**District 5 | The Reaping of Radon Astatine**

* * *

One line blends into another as hair, eyes, nose and mouth begin to take shape. When it's done I'm left staring at it, wondering what to do. I've just drawn last year's Victor. It was her on the day she came to our district; I remember the exact way that District 1 girl's eyes were filled with coldness as she gave her speech honoring last year's tributes. She clearly knew nothing about them. They both died in the bloodbath by some other Career's hands, a horrifying sight for 13 year-old me.

It's strange that I remember those ice cold eyes, those lips drawn in a tight, pale line, and the way her eyes darted back and forth and her hands fluttered as if someone was going to jump on that stage and attack her at any moment. For someone who had trained her whole life to win the Games, she didn't really look happy of the accomplishment. I always thought Careers were supposed to be arrogant and pleased with themselves all the time.

Not this girl.

What's funny is that I can remember all that, but not the color of her dress. Not like it matters - my drawings are never in color. There is something about the Games that commands harsh black and white, nothing else. No lines blurred, nothing mixed. There isn't any gray really; just black and white - alive or dead. My uncle's sketches are the same.

I walk down the stairs and out of my room. My grandmother sits at a table and raises a pale, leathery hand at me. Most of us in District 5 are pale; we spend all day in the factories or in a school building. There is a patch of woods surrounding the district, but most of the trees are dead there; killed off from chemicals spewing from the factories. That's probably one of the reasons District 5 never wins the Games: The kids here never see the sunlight.

My grandmother pulls out a chair: "Come here and sit, Radon." She smiles as I hastily shove the drawing in my back pocket and plunk myself down. "What have you got there?" she whispers. Oh, she knows already. I reluctantly pull out the slightly crumped drawling as Grandma looks at it with great interest before suddenly shoving it back to me. She hates these drawings, though she would never tell me - but someone will want this. I didn't make it for nothing.

"I'm going to Uncle Mercury's house!" I shout at her.

"The Reaping is at 11:30!" She shouts back with a surprisingly loud voice for her thin frame. Grandma is that type of person, always surprising me with her strength.

I walk out of the tiny three-roomed house and shut the door behind me. I used to hate having to go over to my Uncle Mercury's house; he was a past Victor, and my survival, should I get Reaped, is somewhat of an obsession of his. He taught me everything, but what I excel most at is snares - all those knots and lines forming a big picture. It just fits me. Snares were his best thing too; that's how he won, by leaving his enemies helpless.

Enemies? Is that the right word for them? Or was that just what the Capital wanted him to think?

No matter, that was what got him home to me. One of my earliest memories was of my uncle's hands over my own, leading me in tying a knot. His face was a mask of determination. _Why are you doing this Uncle Mercury? _I can remember asking him then, feeling crabby because I wanted to play. Then someone was shouting at him - my grandmother, maybe? Could it have been my mother? But his face stayed determined: _I want you to come home. _

That was what he said. I can still remember the conversation word-for-word, even though I couldn't have been more than four. His words confused me so much then, but now I understand them better. He taught me how to pick out edible plants in those dying and decaying woods; because of that, I'm especially adept at identifying fungi.

Snares and plants aren't much use as weapons, however.

Fortunately I picked up _one_ offensive skill: throwing knives. I hated the things and I always will, but my Uncle - seeing that this was my best "actual weapon" skill - first failed to understand why I refused to do it. I'll admit it; I am pretty good with them. But then he slowly understood - I feel like a killer with them in my hands. With snares, it's different. I can leave someone hanging defenseless, but someone will have to come and "take advantage" of the situation. There's no rule that says I have to. But with knives, it's your kill and yours alone.

Uncle Mercury has come to understand me; and I him. Besides, there is one thing we do together that keeps us so close: The Book.

The Book is completely compiled of sketches. Every sketch is of a tribute, usually at their interview; if they are known for something unusual, like a perfect aim with daggers, or even a signature smirk, we'll sketch that too. Under the sketch of the tribute's interview, Uncle Mercury has recorded their score in his neat handwriting.

In bigger letters is the most important part: There lies an adjective, one word to describe each tribute so they won't be forgotten - at least by two people: A man damaged beyond repair and his reluctant nephew.

If they're a Victor, we sketch that as well. I was given that assignment this year, and though I put it off for a while, it's done now. When I walk up the doorsteps to the mansion Mercury owns, he thrusts the door open as if he's been standing right there waiting for me. He likely has been. He takes the drawing in his hand, smiling as he leads me into the Grand Foyer - or whatever it's called. He runs into the room adjacent to press the drawing into The Book.

It still amazes me just how big this house is. My grandparents could be living in a much bigger house with the money Mercury received as a Victor, but they chose to stay in the same place. I think it's because it's the same house my father grew up in - he died when I was four, followed quickly by my mother. It was some huge accident at one of the many power plants here. People ask me a lot if I miss them, but I can't even remember them. It's impossible to miss something you never really had in the first place.

I stare up at the clock on the wall. 11:20! How is that possible? I look around wildly. "Uncle Mercury I have to go to the…I have to go now!"

He stares at me - just stares without words. I know what it means – I have to get out of there before he completely loses it. It's happened before: Two years ago, when I was 12 and it was my first Reaping, he just went upstairs to his room, drew the blinds, turned off the lights, and stayed up there for 3 days.

I rush out of the house. Not again; not this year. I practically sprint all the way to the Town Square; the puddles on the street from this morning's rain splatter my pants with mud. By the time I get to the Square my hair sticks to my forehead; I'm not sure if it's sweat or the water spraying up from the puddles. Here it's so crowded I can hardly move my elbows. I've noticed though that the 14 year-old boy section seems smaller than the rest.

My Grandfather always says that I am more observant than others.

The Capitol's escort, some woman dressed in eye-watering yellow, walks onto the stage. I remember her name as Sapphire Williams; once she stars her speech, I recall why I was able to place her name in the first place. Sapphire has one of the most _annoying_ voices I've ever heard. I actually see some of the 12 year-olds cringe; I think I cringed too at that age.

Sapphire makes her way over to the bowl after a short introduction, saying all-too-enthusiastically, "Let's have our gentlemen first."

She grins in her sticky, sweet smile. I clench my fists. Don't let it be some 12 year-old.

Please not a 12 year-old.

Please.

"Radon Astatine!"

That was my name. Mine.

Mine.

The gravel underneath my foot crunches as I step forward, hands clenched and eyes down. Don't let them know. Don't let them know what you're feeling.

My palms are sweating.

All the boys in front of me step aside as I walk through a sea of faces. _I know you - and I know you, too._

_Crunch_.

One step at a time - up the stairs, deep breath. _Creak_. Will there be a volunteer? Please. There has to be. I'm only 14. Some 18 year-old. _Please_!

But all that greets me…is silence.

Silence…and the sea of faces. That is when I realize - they know that I am trained by a Victor. They know about the traps, maybe even the plants and the knives, and they think I will be coming home.

I keep my eyes down as Sapphire goes over to the other bowl. Out of the corner of my eye I see Andrea Dixon, my mentor. She is a viscous killer with a record kill list. Her hands flutter – morphine, the drug that's for pain, inside and out. No, she will be no help.

"Ladies next!" The shriek-like voice nearly makes me jump as Sapphire's hand goes in. Who will it be? Who will I have to watch die? And maybe, just maybe, who will, in turn, be killing?

Not a 12 year-old.

Please don't let it be a 12 year-old.

"Agata Patience!"

I don't know the name, nor the face as a girl comes out from the 17 year-old section. Not 12 - I could never do that. Agata has a blank face - _blank_. She walks up the stairs, one at a time. _Creak_. A bun holds back her hair, but not enough of it. There is something in the way she walks, tilted oddly at the side, though nothing seems physically wrong with her. Maybe it's the way her eyes are so dull. Is she…unstable? No, oh please no. I could never…I could _never_.

"Let's have them shake hands, shall we?" Sapphire breaks in, her words like my knives in cutting the silence. Have any in the sea of faces sensed what I did? That a girl so possibly…off could possibly be sent. So cold…so harsh. It's like harsh gray lines, almost forming a face. Almost. So nearly a complete face…so nearly perfect. But the lines don't connect in a few places; they just…miss. Just like Agata.

I give her my hand, a gesture meaning, "I am here for you."

But I cannot be.

Such a cruel gesture to have us do. It's mocking, really. I try to tell her with my eyes that I am sorry, but her eyes show nothing. They're a blank, empty space; and something in her dull eyes tells me that she is not sorry. I drop my hand down to the side of my mud splattered pants. Eyes down. Don't let them know.

"Let's have some applause for our District 5 tributes!" Sapphire announces. But no one claps. Silence. Empty space. Not a sound can be heard. And then, a wail - a high, keening wail shattering the silence like glass. A sound I never knew a human could make.

Uncle Mercury.

* * *

_**Authors for this section: Radon Astatine - katsparkle13**_

_**Editor's note: Because of a vacancy for the District 5 female, only one tribute is written here.  
**_


	7. To See: District 6's Reaping

_A child's future torn apart by strife,_

_His hands hewn but only to take a life.  
_

_District 6's son will find a new game waiting.  
_

* * *

**District 6 | The Reaping of Mikkel Oethro**

* * *

"Ugh," I grunt out as I enter into the world of consciousness.

I feel a beating pain emanating from the right side of my thorax, just above my abdomen. I make a move to wrap my arms around my stomach, but as I try to move them, they are jerked backwards. Confused, I take a deep breath and allow myself to soak in my surroundings.

_Oh, figures._

I realize that I'm sitting down, my back against a wooden beam with my hands chained behind it. I sigh and lightly and frustratingly _thunk_ my head against the beam, causing my dark-red, almost black, hair to fly out of my eyes. _You were too careless. Too greedy,_ I scold myself.

My name is Mikkel Oethro, and I am currently a seventeen year-old boy who is in an immense amount of shit.

I was born into a family that was struggling with poverty. My parents and I lived in the slums on the east side of District Six; we were hungry, but not starving. My dad worked as an engineer technologist at a transportation plant and my mom worked in an assembly line at a train transportation factory. When I was several months shy of five, my mom gave birth to my younger sister, Feliece Oethro. During childbirth, my mom was unable to survive - my dad tried, he really did, but two children on one parent's salary was tough. A little bit after my fifth birthday, my dad made a judgment call - he left me and my sister off at South East Six Orphanage (SESO).

Now, he might seem like the stereotypical, lazy father that abandons his children the moment the mother is gone, but that really wasn't the case. From what I have been told, my sister and I would have had a better chance of starving to death if he _had_ kept us. He made the right call. SESO, I would soon learn, is also infamously known as the thieves' orphanage.

SESO is more or less a scouting and training grounds for one of District Six's largest mobs, the South East Saints (or SES for short). Ironically, since SESO is technically an orphanage on paper, it does get funded by the Capitol - so pretty much one of the largest crime organizations was able to pull off having the government fund their recruitment center. The orphans that are brought into SESO are put through various different tests in order to see what talents (if they had any) were. Since my sister was a baby when we first arrived, she was placed in the SESO nursery where they would care for her until she was old enough for training.

Children are small, and they are generally underestimated by the citizens and peacekeepers. The South East Saints use that ignorance to their advantage by using orphans as unassuming spies, thieves, beggars, and even killers. The orphans that are found to have no talents in the aforementioned skills are usually trained to become cooks, cleaners, training helpers, or lookouts. The cooks in training would assist in the large kitchens and would help out by preparing the food and cleaning the kitchen - all of this while they learned how to become chefs.

The 'cleaners' have a very special job, on the other hand.

My sister, although talented in pickpocketing, was (and is) intensively trained to be a cleaner. She's got a keen advantage: she boasts the priceless talent of a photographic memory. Thanks to this, she has an incredible sense of detail and organization. A cleaner's job is to, well, clean…sort of. After a hit goes down, a cleaner or two are called onto the location quickly. They dispose of the body and then they remove any possible, damning evidence from the scene of the crime. This usually includes scrubbing the victim's blood off the ground and surrounding walls. Cleaners are vitally important to the mob as they have the responsibility of keeping the authorities from gathering enough proof of our criminal activities. My now twelve year-old sister excels at this job.

I am a very proud older brother.

Training helpers are the unsung heroes of SESO and the SES, on the other hand. They work hard in keeping the training grounds and rooms clean and operational for us. They hold large foam cushions in front of their bodies while others practice their fighting skills against them and are always giving moral and emotional support to those who need it. They are the behind the scenes people that keep everything operational.

The lookout position is for those who are sneaky and quick on their feet, but they aren't necessarily stealthy with their actions. They are trained to strategically locate in unassuming vantage point where they can see their partner (or partners) while being able to keep an eye out for any unwanted disruptions. It is up to them to use their discretion in determining whether or not a mission is compromised. If they believe it is, they will sound off a predetermined alarm that will alert everyone else into knowing that the mission is no longer salvageable.

The orphans that have been deemed to have _absolutely_ no talent are actually put up for adoption. It's simple business. For the rest of us of use, SESO puts on our public record that we are emotionally and physically not ready to be adopted and assimilated with the outside world. This effectively keeps the promising orphans within the firm clutches of those who run the place.

South East Six Orphanage became my saving grace. After I was fed generously my first week there, I quickly began to learn the art of pickpocketing. The first few months were great, and it all seemed like a game: The instructors would pretend they didn't know I was in the room, and I would try to steal small items from their clothing without alerting them to my presence. The teachers were impressed by the talent I displayed and they made the decision to keep me training as a thief. They called me a prodigy; some said that they had 'never seen a child so young, yet so full of talent.' I was pushed into the streets with full confidence from the mentors from SESO to perform my first ever 'mission.'

Anything and everything having to do with a job for SESO is referred to as a mission. My very first attempt at pickpocketing ended terribly: My thumb had rubbed against the fabric of a coat worn by an older man. As punishment for getting caught, the man kicked me several times while he yelled incoherently at me. When the orphanage mentors found out, I received another beating as _motivation_ to do a better job the next time.

With the ever present 'motivation' from my teachers, I tried my hardest to become a better thief. I soon became comfortable with swiping hand-watches, coins, pouches, and food from the older citizens of District Six. A year after my first pickpocketing attempt, I began stealing from more difficult targets. I got a huge high off of stealing, and the more difficult the target was, the bigger the rush I got. To this day I still get an adrenaline rush that is _oh so addictive,_ to the point that I would still steal even if I wasn't instructed to - I am a kleptomaniac.

Hey, I think it's a good thing that I enjoy my work.

I shake my head as I remind myself that it is in fact _my work_ that had gotten me in this predicament. Getting caught and humiliated like this reminds me of my first time attempting to steal from a peacekeeper. I let the smallest of shudders take its course over my body as I remember the day that would traumatize my body for the rest of my life.

I had been doing well when it came to pickpocketing the civilians of District Six. My beaming-with-happiness instructors decided that it was time that I try my first peacekeeper. They gave me the target and I was expected to complete the mission; I found my mark and stealthily stalked him. I had followed the peacekeeper into an apothecary shop and then waited for him to buy something. I casually walked up behind him as he was pulling out his wallet to pay, and just as his wallet started to slide into his pocket after he made his purchase, I grabbed the wallet with two of my fingers. At this point, I had learned to never use my thumb to do a lift again.

Unfortunately, the shop keeper had just spotted my fingers, and the bastard alerted the peacekeeper to crime in progress. Livid, the peacekeeper grabbed me by my shirt collar and lifted me into the air. He then opened up the package that he had just purchased, and to my horror, he rubbed a powdery substance into my eye.

It _burned_.

The searing pain in my eyes caused my body to spasm uncontrollably. My screaming must have shocked the shopkeeper because he took me from the peacekeeper (who now looked sick to his stomach - I don't think this was the reaction he was expecting). The proprietor poured an acid-based liquid onto my face to counteract the powerful alkaline powder. When he was satisfied, he then dunked my head into a bucket full of water. At this point, the peacekeeper had since departed, afraid that he would be charged for attacking a small child. I must have passed out in the bucket of water because when I came back to consciousness, I was lying on my back outside behind the apothecary shop. The shop owner must have brought me out there; having a dying child on one's floor isn't exactly the best way to attract customers.

I had a killer headache, and when I tried to open my eyes, I was greeted by stinging pain. After a few attempts at trying to ignore the agony I finally got my eyes to open - and that was all. All I could get my eyes to do was open their eyelids; I was unable to get them to _see_.

Horror-struck, I desperately tried to figure out why I couldn't see more than light, darkness, and the fuzzy outlining of shapes. I gritted my teeth and forced my body into an upright sitting position. A wave of wooziness crashed down upon my head as I began to sway. Through my confusion, I knew one thing: I had to get back to SESO somehow.

I tried to use my hands to push myself onto my feet, but the condition my head was in wouldn't allow walking. I did the only thing I could get my body to do: I crawled. I crawled blindly towards what I thought was the right direction. In all seventeen years of my life, I don't think I have ever come close to being as scared as I was then - a six year old incapable of standing and blind.

There must be some type of deity that watches over this world - or gets his kicks and amusement from us - because fifteen minutes into my blind crawl, one of the senior orphans of SESO found me on her way back from a mission. She was sixteen at the time; her name was Senra. Senra was one of the senior members that I observed and copied. She was rough around the edges and cussed like nobody's business, but deep down I think she had a soft spot for me.

She died two years ago when a mission she was in for the South East Saints went horribly wrong. I didn't cry at her funeral; she would have laughed at me if I had.

That day, she scooped me right up off of the ground and brought me home. On our way back to SESO, she told me that she was proud I wasn't crying- and I had better be damn sure that any tears that come out of my eyes were from the irritation caused by the powder, and not from pain. She would later tell me that the looks on all the faces of the members of SESO that saw her carry me in were priceless. I, of course, had a hard time distinguishing faces, let alone seeing facial expressions, so I had to take her word for it. Luckily my baby sister was still just a baby; she grew up having no recollection of me having my full capability of sight.

I was rushed to the infirmary within SESO's grounds. Funny thing: SESO's infirmary was actually much more state-of-the-art than the actual, official hospital of District Six. Guess it does pay to be a part of a gang.

I was immediately injected with anesthesia after being laid on a bed of white sheets. I woke up thirty hours later, immediately falling into a small panic attack when I couldn't open my eyes. Once I gained control of my body again, I realized that I had bandages wrapped around my eyes. A doctor came into the room I was staying in, and he told me that I was going to have to leave the bandages on for a week. After a week, he would remove them and replace them with a set of new bandages for another week.

I had to go two weeks of pure _darkness_.

In my young mind, I had imagined that those two weeks were going to be pure hell, yet some of my instructors jumped at the opportunity. 'A door closes, and another door opens,' they used to tell me.

'Right now you have no eyesight; you're going to need to rely on your other sense to make up for that,' one of them told me.

They were very excited to train me; I was the first to have this predicament. My mentors had me train my hearing by making different noises to focus on. They started out with loud, obvious noises, such as a bell ringing, for me to pinpoint their locations. After I had grown comfortable with finding them based on the ringing noises, they moved to more subtle sounds. This went on and on: I would find them, and they would become quieter. I had been so immersed in this new exercise, I was surprised to find out my two weeks were up.

The bandages were cut off and removed-I was able to open my eyes for the first time in two weeks. I was instantly disappointed. Sure, I could see better than I was able to before I was taken to the infirmary, but in my childish mind I had expected to have my sight fully restored. After the bandages were removed, I was able to make out where colors differed from each other, brightness levels, and the outlines of objects. If I got close enough, and squinted in the right way, I could make out more detailed features on people's faces. Deflated, I hung my head in self-pity.

I wanted to wallow in my misfortune and have everyone give me sympathy, but Senra found me and whipped me into shape. She told me that I was lucky to be alive, and lucky to even have _any_ sort of sight coming from my eyes. She then slapped my back and told me to 'buck up, and prove [my] worth to SESO.' Senra would also later tell me that my originally bright green eye color had been muted to a light, almost translucent green color from the effects of the alkaline powder.

Invigorated, I sought out the instructors that did hearing training with me during my sightless weeks and asked them to continue to train me. Over the next eleven years I was trained to heighten my other senses in order to aid in my 'sight.'

Sight, hearing, feeling, olfaction, and taste are all used to create a mental image. With years of practice, I became able to detect the height of grass based off of the noise the wind made against the blades as the reflection the sun bounced from into my eyes. Almost losing sight kick-started my neglected senses into high gear, all for the sake of survival.

Two years later I had become relatively content with my state of being. It was then decided that I should begin my training with weapons; I needed to be able to defend myself if I got caught again. I had shown promising talent in stealing, so I needed a weapon that wasn't going to hinder my speed and dexterity. Dual daggers were decided to be my companions.

I very much enjoyed learning the art of fighting with a dagger; however, my skill at throwing the daggers was poor, at best. My eyes were just not good enough to direct the snap of my wrist as I released my weapons, and the sound and vibrations alone were not enough to allow me to throw the blades fatally. Sure, I could possibly _hit_ a target, but all I could hope to do was maim it. The target would most likely be perfectly able to attack me, and I would be one (if not both) daggers down. Realistically speaking, it just wasn't worth it.

Once I reached the age of ten I was kept on a strict diet and exercise routine. I was fed mostly lean protein and vegetables so that my body would remain slender and toned. I was trained to make soundless steps, making my skill at sneaking much more effective.

_Always land on the balls of my feet; never on the heel._

The pairing of my ability to become soundless and hear the tiniest pinpricks proved a deadly ensemble. I began spy training at the age of eleven, and quickly after that I was on my first spying mission. I was to listen for information on a rival gang about a shipment of Morphling they were expecting. For the first time ever, my first new type of missions were a success thanks to my elevated hearing. I was able to inform SES about the shipment of the narcotic, and they were able to efficiently intercept the packages.

When I turned twelve, my main instructor decided that I was old enough to learn the art of killing. Of course I had kept up the training with my daggers and I could very well kill someone if I had to, but most of the training had been entirely meant for self-defense. I hadn't a clue on how to _initiate_ an attack on someone.

Now, I was going to learn how to carry off an assassination.

I had been drilled and drilled over and over to get my form perfect. My mentor told me that I should remove hesitation from my. Hesitation is what got most killers killed, and I would be a fool to feel pity for my target. Most of my training took place at night; during the night, I would have an advantage. Those who were dependent on eyesight were also dependent on the sunlight. They needed light in order to use their eyes to their full potential. I, on the other hand, didn't need a ray of light.

I could see just fine.

I was thirteen when I was given my first hit mission. I followed the protocol I was taught, quietly stalked the target, and then - once the target was alone in dim light - I snuck a dagger across his throat. I flicked my wrist inward while pulling my arm laterally from my body - without any _hesitation._

I had never had so much of another human's blood rain down on me.

I was glad to find myself apathetic to the fact that the (now dead) man's blood covered my face. SESO and SES would be so proud of me.

Drug cartels are everywhere in District Six; we are infamously known as the District of Morphling. No other district comes close to our amount of drug usage. Now I'm no addict nowadays, but part of my training at SESO included taking drugs in order to pinpoint my reactions. This way, if I was ever drugged, I would be able to act accordingly. In addition to knowing my body, the higher-ups in SESO wanted to test our willpower - they wanted to see if we would fall into the despair of addiction.

I was thirteen the first time I found something _really_ great – DiacetylPhine, or DYP. Oh boy, when I injected that in my arm's vein…that was something. My body filled with warmth from the tips of my toes to the hairs on my head. I felt relaxed, secure, _safe_. I felt as if my mom was snuggling with me like she'd never died.

I _loved_ it. _Craved_ it.

I quickly became addicted to the warmth and soon got sloppy with my missions. When I infiltrated cartels, I picked up a habit of stealing a little extra DYP as I carried out my objectives.

I began trying to get rid of my addiction to DYP, but going cold grouse is nigh impossible. My sudden withdrawal left me clammy and anxious, and pretty soon I was fighting for sleep. Insomnia rendered me in a perpetual zombified state.

Cold sweats opened up across my body, and soon I was compromising every mission I was part of. One of my mentors told me to either get a handle on my body or to enjoy sleeping on the streets. The only quick fix I could think of was shooting up.

I _needed_ to sate my body's desires.

I had collected the necessities to create an injectable batch of DYP, but my shaking hands left me with a hard time cooking it up. I mixed my batch with water and my acid of choice, lemon juice, even as other members of SESO that were in the kitchen glanced over in my direction – still no one bothered me. It wasn't a rare sight to see someone prepare drugs. Once I was content with the smell of my brew – at this point, I would have been happy with anything close to what I needed - I sucked up some of the DYP mixture into my needle and left SESO to inoculate myself.

I knew the perfect place to commit my sin. Recently a new batch of train cars had arrived in District Six for repairs. It all surrounded something about the livestock that the cars had been transporting damaging the wiring within the base of the cars. They weren't going to be operated on in some time and would offer me unparalleled privacy.

I sprinted towards a car and unsteadily jumped into it. In my haste to tie off my left arm, I dropped the syringe that had been clenched between my teeth. After I had a ribbon secured around my upper extremity, I picked the syringe up from the ground and plunged its contents into my vein. In that moment, I felt my body twist with relief as the familiar warmth returned to me. Hours later I made my way back to SESO completely satisfied. I fell onto my bed and enjoyed I nice night full of fuzziness and coziness.

Half a week later, my arm began to sport a new skin lesion. A dark, dry scab showed up right where I had punctured myself. Radiating of away from the scab, a powerful reddening took over my arm. No one in SESO knew what to do with my arm - some of the more ignorant suggested to cut it off.

Chills raked my body a week or so later while a fever ransacked my mind. I became very ill, and some thought I was on death's door. I must _really_ be too entraining to quite kill off because the disease I had contracted wasn't entirely unheard of in District Six. A doctor from the South East Saints came to SESO to see if she could help me.

Cutaneous anthrax, I was informed, had infected me. When I had dropped my syringe on the floor of the livestock train cart, the syringe had picked up some bacterial spores from cow dung. A series of rather unfortunate events progressed that led to my predicament. Luckily, the good doctor was quite skilled in her craft, and she had me better in no time.

Well, that's a lie. I wasn't back to my complete strength for weeks, but I was alive. After that event, I tried my hardest to quite DYP, but this time I was smarter. Instead of quitting entirely, I weaned my body slowly off DYP. I am proud to say that the last time I ever shot up was just before my sixteenth birthday, I have been sober now for over a year.

I woke up yesterday morning in the bedroom that I share with three others, finding a small red letter beside me. The script on the letter was larger and darker than normal script as I opened the red letter, slightly surprised that I was getting a job a day before the Reaping as I read the contents. I was given the assignment to destroy a new shipment of a popular nasal drug, BenzEc, from a local drug cartel that has been causing trouble for the South East Saints.

SES runs several drug rings, but they also offer protection to certain drug cartels. Protection is traded for a cut of the cartel's profits, and according to my little red letter, one of the drug cartels under the protection of the SES was no longer paying its dues. I was given the mission to infiltrate their hideout and set fire to their stash of BenzEc. After carefully reading the letter, I set fire to it. I didn't want to leave any evidence behind.

I put on my black pants and my black short-sleeved shirt and pulled a pair of black boots over my pants. My clothing is fitted, eliminating any issues of my clothing getting in the way of my actions. I looked around the room for a comb, finding one on a large vanity that all we boys share. Taking the comb in my hand, I teased a section of my hair until it got really nice and knotty. I then groped around the wooden drawer of the vanity to find several small metal objects that varied in length and width. I secured and hid the pieces of metal within my knotted hair as insurance in case anything went wrong. I grabbed an extra paperclip so I could swallow it just before I started my mission - you really can never be too careful. I found and took my black leather gloves before leaving for the kitchen.

When I got to the kitchen, I was greeted by my uncharacteristically nervous sister. Red blurs mingled with the skin of her hands, and I guessed it must have been someone's dried blood from a long previous night.

"Morning Feliece," I had greeted her. "Nice hands."

She ignored my last comment and greeted me, "Morning,"

I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was anxious and wound up. I was going to ask her what was wrong, but then I remembered that tomorrow was going to be her first ever Reaping.

"You're going to be fine," I told her. She knew what I was referencing about. "You've been entered once; the chances of you getting picked are slim."

"But what if I beat all of the odds? What if I do get chosen?" I saw the whites of her eyes grow larger.

"Then you kill them all," I replied seriously.

"What if we both get picked," she challenged me.

"Then I kill them all, and then you kill me. Simple."

"I can't kill you!" I wasn't able to tell if she meant she couldn't morally kill me or if she couldn't physically kill me. It didn't really matter to me.

"Sure you can, and if you found yourself unable to that for whatever reasons, I'd just do it myself." Before she was able to question my statement, I had cut her off by saying, "I have to go now. I've got one last mission to do before the Reaping. See you later."

We said our curt goodbyes to each other and I had told her to start practicing with her knives if she was still worried.

I slipped a small knife into a compartment inside of my left boot, strapped on my belt that sheathed my daggers, swallowed the paper clip, and then pulled on my gloves. I was ready to begin.

I spent the entire day sneaking inside the storage building that held all of the BenzEc. Those in charge of the shipment must have been suspecting retaliation from SES for their slight, as guards were everywhere; nonetheless, I was still able to find the room that housed the new shipment. It was close to nightfall when I started to drizzle oil over the bags of finely packed white powder.

My mission had been going so well that I became cocky.

In hindsight, I should have just made a spark with my dagger and lit the whole place up like my mission wanted. But no, instead I grabbed several bags of BenzEc to steal. I wanted the satisfaction of successfully stealing brand new narcotics from right under the noses of the cartel. At the moment I was stuffing the bags into my clothing, an unassuming guard picked that moment to walk into the room.

Here was the problem: The door that he had just walked through was the only way out of the room. Here was an unidentified youth stuffing nose candy down his pants while the rest of the BenzEc was covered in oil waiting to be lit on fire.

He was stunned silent for a few seconds before being able to recollect himself. My dagger wasn't able to slice across his throat before he game out a loud, gargled cry for help. He fell to the ground, grasping at his throat, as more guards came rushing to the scene.

Now, I am a 5'9" youth who weighs 140 pounds. I don't do too well in close quarters combat against multiple people. It's fair to say I went down fast. One guard got a good kick to my stomach which ripped open a bag; BenzEc flew everywhere. Within minutes of them pummeling me, I blacked out.

So here I am, chained, hurt, and slightly woozy on the day of the reaping with BenzEc powder dusted all over my body. _Just fucking great._ I can only place the blame on myself. I tried to do more than what I was capable of. Now, I have to break out of this cellar just so I can risk the chance of being thrown to my death while the entire country watches. I have to be present for the Reaping - not showing up would be a direct sign of treason to the Capitol.

I can tell that I'm bruised all over and I can taste the dried blood that had oozed out of my split lower lip. I groan slightly as I use my fingers to feel the lock that's keeping the chains in place. I recognize the feel of the lock; it's a standard style no. 3 - it's easy to pick.

Well, it would be easy to pick of I had a paperclip or something similar.

I shake my head as I try to get the metal out of my hair. One wire-like piece springs loose and falls next to my left thigh. _Well, damn. Can't really reach that. _After several more failed attempts I give up. _Time for my plan B._

Plan B sucks.

Once I am through with this, I am going to need a good washing. Essentially gagging myself, I use my tongue to cover my pharynx. With my esophagus closed off, I focus on controlling my epiglottis. I make it wiggle up and down while I rack my body with strong heaves. When I feel the chyme rise up from my stomach, I pull my knees closer to my mouth. Within moments I am spilling the contents of my stomach all over my abdomen and pants. I catch the tell-tale glint of metal in my digested contents that is now soaking into my clothing. Trying to ignore the scent and the texture of the bits of food, I shove my mouth into the vomit in search of the paperclip. It takes me a few attempts at biting at it to finally have the paperclip secured in my mouth.

Using my tongue and teeth, I wiggle the paperclip apart. I place the now-opened paper clip on my left shoulder, allowing it to slide down my arm and into the crook of my elbow, and then, at last, onto the palms of my hands. I make quick, careful work of the lock that is in between me and freedom. I hear footsteps approaching the room that I'm chained up in, so I try to pick the lock faster. I have the lock off just as the door opens. The man is walking over to me, a strand of wire in his hands. I keep my hands behind my back in response: He doesn't know I'm free.

"I'm supposed to dispose of you quickly," he lets me know. "The Reaping is starting in twenty-five minutes."

My only response to him is the glare I send his way. He puts a cigarette in his mouth.

"Goodness, you look and smell like shit!" He remarks at my current appearance as he takes out a box of matches to light his cigarette.

He walks closer to me, and from the shine the wire makes, I can tell that it is covered in glass dust. He lowers his hands as he prepares to wrap the wire around my neck; unfortunately for him, I use this moment to headbutt him, hard.

He stumbles backwards as I grab the wire from his hands and wrap it around his neck. Ignoring the pain caused by the wire cutting into my hands, I tighten it until a good flow of blood rushes out of the man's neck. I lay his body on the ground and take his box of matches before I stealthily exit the room. Outside of my holding cell, I make my way through the hallway looking for the storage room.

_I always complete my mission._

I find the room, and I am pleasantly pleased to find out that they haven't been able to wipe all of the oil off of the BenzEc packages. I light a match and quickly throw it upon the oil. Flames erupt, and I am out the door before I can get caught again.

Having no time to get washed up, I run straight to the Reaping. I can hear people gasp as they see this delinquent make his way through the crowd, covered in BenzEc, cuts, bruises, and his own bodily fluids. I must be quite the sight among all the children dressed in their best outfits for the Reaping. I'm convinced that I still have some of my vomit dried on the side of my cheek.

I catch sight of my sister, and I think I can see her eyebrows raised in concerned amusement. I make my way over to the sign-in tables and am ushered over to the seventeen year-old boys section. I swear I can sense some of the boys subtly moving away from me - can't really say I'm surprised. I must look (and I _know_ I smell) awful.

Two minutes after I enter my section, the mayor walks up to the podium to give his speech. I made the Reaping just in time.

The mayor goes on and on about how the Capitol is _the shit_, and we districts should pretty much suck their toes. He doesn't use that exact wording, but it's implied.

I zone out until District Six's escort, Bruce Wilkins, takes his place behind the podium. He's a tall, well-built man that sports long platinum hair. He looks out at the crowd with such excitement that it looks like he's going to shit happiness.

Nicholas Davidson, District Six's mentor, is seated next to the empty seat that belongs to Wilkins. Davidson infamously went crazy twelve years ago when he could no longer take the pressure of being a Victor. Thankfully, for his health and the health of those around him, he married another Victor two years after his meltdown. The match keeps each other's craziness in check, and the birth of their new son, Percy, has mellowed both out a considerable amount.

Bruce Wilkins taps the microphone.

"Welcome, all!" He starts in the typical Capitol accent. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor." He giggles like a young lady showing off her new boyfriend to her jealous friends.

"Alright, ladies first, hmm?" He sweetly drawls, "Oh I can just feel the excitement!"

Actually, everyone is dead silent.

He shuffles over to the large, glass globe and ducks a hand into the mass of paper slips. Bruce gingerly makes his way back to the podium, unwraps the paper, and reads out the name: "District Six's female tribute is none other than a Miss Reece Astor!"

When I realize the name wasn't my younger sister, I release the breath that I've been holding. I am not the only one that reacts this way: A wave of relieved sighs ripple throughout the crowd of people. The young girl makes her way up onto the stage, her tailored, clean clothing signifying her position in this district – she's rich and comfortable. Judging by her body shape and the mannerism of how she walked on the stage, she looks like she is somewhere between 13 and 15. Once up on the stage, she vulnerably looks around the crowd as if she's searching for someone to hold her hand throughout the ordeal.

Undoubtedly, she must have grown up in a safe and secure environment, with people there to catch her as she fell. I'm skeptical about if she has ever had a scraped knee.

_Poor girl._ I think without a touch of sympathy. _My sister could probably kill her blindfolded._

I proudly believe that if _she_ was the one chosen, my sister would be standing on that stage, chest up, shoulders back, and glaring at the camera. She would show no signs of weakness, inlike this coddled tribute.

The girl gets situated on the stage while Bruce walks over to the glass bowl holding the boys' names. He gives the contents a hearty swish before snatching a piece of paper. He almost skips back over to the podium to announce the fate of who the male tribute will be.

His body is shivering in delight as he reads the slip, "Mikkel Oethro."

The sound of my name echoes throughout the town's square. I've always wondered what it would feel like to be chosen as the tribute, and I have always wondered what my reaction would be if it were me.

Well, my first reaction is confusion.

It doesn't fully register in my mind that I have been chosen, but my body is on auto-pilot - which would explain why I'm walking up the stage. I check my emotions.

_Are you scared, Mikkel? Angry? Upset? Is your world crumbling down?_

I contemplate these thoughts as my foot makes contact with the first step to the stage. I realize that there is only one word that can answer my own questions.

_No._

I don't think I feel anything about my situation. I've been in life or death situations and have come out alive, sometimes thanks to nothing short of a miracle. All I know is that there is only one thing I must do in the upcoming Games.

Survive.

In my mind, the Games aren't here to test the tributes fighting prowess, but to test our skills at staying alive. Survival has been a part of my life, so joining the Hunger Games almost feels like a natural continuation of my life story. Almost.

SESO and the SES will be proud to have one of their own represent them in the Games, but they will also be nervous about my actions. I have no doubt that one of my visitors will be one of my old mentors making sure I don't fuck anything up for them before the cameras.

Nicholas tells us to shake hands with each other once I am situated onstage. I hold my hand out to Reece and she timidly puts hers in mine. She stares at me with a look that wants some sort of assurance, but I grant her no such thing. I look passively down at her, shaking her hand up and down twice.

She will get no sympathy from me.

I'm sitting on a couch inside of a room within District Six's Justice Building. It really is a nice place, and I actually know the layout to this building pretty well. I have stolen from this building before.

I wait for my first visitor to enter. The door creaks open, and I watch my younger sister walk confidently into the room.

"Kill them all, Mikkel," she orders in a curt manner.

"This will be my first time killing before an audience; I might get stage fright," this is my sad excuse for a joke.

My sister and I are cut from the same fabric, however, so she can't help but crack a smile.

"They told me that if you die, they are going to start training me to take your place," Feliece informs me.

"As they should; you would be a great killer. My only regret would be not being able to witness your first kill."

"Come back alive, and that shouldn't be a problem, right?" I think I'm going to miss my sister.

"It's not like I'm going to try to die in the Games," I say with a sense of indignity. "I'll try my hardest to survive. It'll be just like another mission."

"Mikkel, I swear I will be pissed if you die in the Games without killing someone. Actually, scratch that, I will be pissed if you only kill one person, whether or not you live or die."

_Saints, I love my sister._

She smiles at me again while she pulls out a plain, silver band. I recognize it immediately - the ring was the first thing that she had ever stolen of value. I had accompanied her on the mission. She had accidentally alerted an older gentleman to her presence; being the protective older brother that I am, I didn't want her first real mission to end poorly. I had tackled the man and tossed one of my daggers to Feliece. I was delighted when I watched instinct take over her as she cut the ring from the man's hand - finger included.

"For your token," she says lightly while she pushes the ring onto my right hand's middle finger.

The peacekeeper knocks on the door and gives us a one minute warning as we stand up and hug each other tightly. She concludes: "Hesitation leads to death, instigation leads to reward."

This is a mantra beaten into every child farmed at SESO.

I watch my little sister leave the room just as one of my mentors, Robin Slaine, enters the room.

"A rather surprising turn of events, eh Mikky?" He says lightheartedly, taking a seat.

"I guess so," I reply nonchalantly

Robin is now close enough to me to smell and see me well. "Saints, Mikkel. Is that vomit?" He questions, motioning to my face and clothing.

I groan in frustration as this morning's events come back to mind.

"I had a difficult time with last night's mission. I woke up chained to a wooden post," I tell him in a joking manner.

"Oh Mikky, you sure love cutting it close," he says with a smile on his face, but then he quickly drops the smile. "You did complete the mission." It's not a question but a statement.

"Of course."

"Good!" His smile is back, and he slaps me playfully on my back before turning serious again. "Mikkel, I want your actions to glorify SESO and the South East Saints. Please keep in mind that your actions will directly reflect back on us."

"I understand," I say. "I'll do everything in my power to make us look good."

"Fantastic!" He's all smiles again. "I must be going, but I want to leave on this note. I have trained you myself; I know what your capabilities are. I believe in you."

He pats me on my back, and then he's gone.

Many people underestimate Robin because of his seemingly carefree manner, but the truth is he could probably kill me in his sleep with his hands tied behind his back. He was chosen by the SES to act as a scout for up and coming talent at SESO. He told me when I was younger that if I was able to survive until I was eighteen, he would induct me into the South East Saints.

A peacekeeper walks into the room and informs me that I don't have any more visitors. He escorts me out of the Justice Building, through a crowd of people and cameras and into a train that was made right here in my home district. The female tribute follows behind us with her own escort. I can't see her, but I can hear the sound of her throat working hard on withholding a sob trying to escape. She was shaken up at the Reaping, but the visit with her family must have clarified the situation for her. She looks like she's one tear away from becoming a mess.

We enter the train, and we wait to be taken to the Capitol.

* * *

_**Writers for this section: Mikkel Oethro written by Sammy'sPeetaBread**_


	8. Affliction: District 7's Reaping

_Son and daughter born of wood and pain,_

_Thrown together in this bloody domain.  
_

_The tributes of District 7 leave only darkness behind.  
_

* * *

**District 7 | The Reaping of Akiva Chellan**

* * *

I walk slowly, quietly, with all the stealth I've picked up from years of sneaking in and out of my house. I refuse to call it my home, because it isn't. It is the place I live and reside, but it is in no way, shape, or form a home. If anything, it is a prison; not a sanctuary.

Getting dressed in my work clothes, I pull on my worn, brown boots, feeling the comfort they bring me. I slip out into the cool morning air, my breath making puffs in the air as I imagine myself as a dragon during my walk to the forest…and if I could be one, I would eat my father in one gulp. I love the way the trees smell. Each has its own peculiar scent and it makes me wonder if it is the same with humans. Do we have our own scents? Is that how animals can sense fear? Can we sense fear?

I make a stop by the pond and rummage in the prickly brush for a piece of jerky. I have hidden it so well that the animals that wander the parts are unaware of my stash. I also have a knife, if the time should come for me to use it. I wonder if that'll ever come to pass - the thought of it unnerves me, and I keep walking into the dense forest.

The sunlight only catches the tops of the trees and the fog covers the ground. Experience is what guides me to my destination. A small patch of trees has been roped off; they are just saplings, and we have no need to cut them down yet. I have always liked to see the young trees grow into something large, majestic, and beautiful; something that has been engraved in me by my father.

I quicken my pace as I do not want to be late - especially on Reaping Day. Two poor, innocent lives will be selected to fight to the death today. There is only so much hoping I can do - I have so much tesserae that a slip of paper with my name is entered a total of 36 times in that glass ball. But, there is also only so much I could do to keep myself alive in the long winter, the longest we have had.

I arrive at my work station and greet my boss, who assigns me a smaller portion of trees to chop down today. I think he feels bad, but it is hard to tell under his mask of no emotions. Normally there is no work on Reaping Day, but if you are poor and starving, there are exceptions. I get to work with a rhythmic chopping - _thunk, thunk_. It calms my racing heart, and when I feel a tap on my shoulder, I almost slice my assailant with my axe.

It's my father. He turns to my boss and addresses him as if he is a small rodent that causes a nuisance in one's house.

"I'll be taking her. It is the Reaping today, after all," He sneers at my boss, who shrugs indifferently. Then, with a tight grip on my arm and a slight nod to the workers who are almost all staring, he leads me off. We do not head back home.

We head deeper into the woods, until the light seems to penetrate only the highest points of the tallest trees. On the ground it is dark, like sundown. He hands me some knives and begins to set up targets for me to throw them at. My hands are shaking because of the cold and the fear that if I anger him, there will be consequences. There always are consequences - whether I do it wrong or right. Sometimes, I get so tired of pleasing him, or attempting to please him. I used to wonder why Ma ran away with some fancy Capitol man, but now, if I had the chance, I would do the same in a heartbeat. I could probably do it, too; I know all the skills, like which plants are poisonous and which are helpful for healing. I could kill in one strike. I would not go hungry. The only thing stopping me at this point is the fear of being turned into an Avox, with no tongue.

Sometimes even that sounds better than living with the enemy - my father.

I get to work throwing knives. They all land near the target, so close, but not a bullseye. Not perfect; they are _never _perfect. Slowly, my mouth in a tight line, I turn to face the enemy.

He creeps to the targets, taking his time and examines each and every one carefully, like a wolf inspecting its prey. Finally he turns, ready to attack.

Some time ago he started with the words, the kinds that stung and pierced my skin and broke my heart. But after drinking in the morning instead of at night and doing local drugs, name-calling just wasn't enough. He had to hit and slap me until my blood spilled on the cold granite floor.

His voice slides of his tongue and is cool, like ice on a hot day. His voice brings me none of the relief that the ice does, although I know that it hides imminent danger and force: "Is that the best you can do, Akiva?" Every fiber of me wants to scream, to run away, faster than I ever have; to yell at him, not to ruin my life - but more importantly, to respect. My mother named me Akiva, and he has no right calling me that. His green eyes reflect my gray, his full of menace and scorn.

"Yes," I say softly.

"Yes?" he relies mocking my ever-so slightly quavering voice. I gulp and nod.

"Well," he sneers, "That was definitely not the best any child of mine can do. What do you think, Princess?" I grimace at the nickname. Horrid, just like him. He gets up close in my face, and I can practically taste the alcohol oozing out of him.

"Answer me!" he screams, breaking the silence in the forest and sending sound through the trees and causing birds to take flight; to flap their wings and take their lives away. If only I could be as lucky, I would have been gone with the rising sun as it rose to see Ma leaving on that fancy Capitol train.

I am tired. I want to curl up in a little ball. Most of all, I want a real family.

It even comes as a surprise to me when I hear my voice, strong yet like a whisper: "Yes."

His eyes widen and he reminds me of a scaly, deadly snake: "Liar," he says quietly at first. "LIAR!" His voice echoes through the forest. "I will not have a liar, from you, Princess." I can barely have time to process that I have just disobeyed the enemy.

His fist connects with my eye and I collapse on the ground, eyes closed, head pounding in pain. If I'm lucky, I'll have a black eye when I go to the Capitol.

Go get ready for the Reaping. And you better pray you are Reaped, because tomorrow will be hell. I will be in town." I hear his footsteps fade away, through the crunchy leaves that are my home.

Tears squeeze out of my quickly swelling eye and I take the long route back to our squat house; doing my best to avoid any people with their nosy questions.

I apply salve when I get in my room, cleverly hidden in my sock drawer. I look in the mirror at my bruised eye and my split lip. I look like a mess. I get to work concealing any type of bruise or injury, dressing into my Reaping outfit. It's my worn yellow skirt, my white shirt tucked in and my yellow bow in my short brown hair.

At least _that_ looks ok.

I stare at myself with sullen, dead eyes; my once-beautiful gray eyes, filled with life. Now they are dead. He has taken the life out of me.

I hear a knock on my door and out of instinct, stiffen and wait for the blow. I receive none, just a voice: "Get down to the Reaping!" Shoot, I am late.

I take one last look in the mirror. A pair of sad eyes stare back at me, and I force a smile as I lock the door. Quickly, quickly, down to the Reaping. The needle stings as it pricks my finger, and I slide in to the 16 year old section next to a familiar girl, Liana Meaker. She smiles at me, but we both turn our heads to the front. The mayor is finishing his speech about the history of the Hunger Games: I am lucky I missed most of it.

Our escort, Gwen Boasten, takes the stage. She looks like a forest fire, with flame designs on her face and arms that match her screaming red hair. The only fiery thing that is missing is her personality. She is as cold as ice, without any hints of emotion. Our only living mentor, Blight, sits in the back, staring out to the audience. He seems to be staring at nothing. All of the victors always do; they are just looking for an excuse not to look at all of the fearful faces, two of which they will see be murdered. There has only ever been one victor from District 7.

"Welcome to the Reaping of the 34th Annual Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor! I hope you survive," Gwen stares at the kids, crammed into the roped areas like the cattle from District 10 that I once saw in a video in school. I know she doesn't mean it, doesn't care if we survive. We are just a poor district that provides the Capitol with trees. Not as special as a Career districts. You can't always get what you want.

She slides over to the girls ball and draws out a singular name.

"Akiva Chellan."

And I didn't even pray. The odds must have been in my favor, or my father's favor at least. Now he can drink himself dead for all I care, because I am pretty sure that I am not coming back. And even if I do, I will sleep in safety, because he will not be allowed to go _near_ me. I step in the aisle before the Peacekeepers come to collect me and walk to the stage, emotionless, yet proud: Just like I was taught to.

My father is not even there. He is probably passed out drunk in some bar, the Peacekeepers too lazy to move the town drunk. I see my older brother, Jenk, and his wife, Helia, with their one-year old, my niece Cossa. He left home as soon as he could, the day he turned 18, and moved in with Helia's family. He wanted nothing to do with the enemy.

I wish I could do the same. But he won't have anyone coming back to him.

"Blaze Echolls," Gwen reads the boy's name.

A bored looking boy emerges from the 18's section. He is tall and muscular with dirty blond hair. His shirt, although ripped in some places, shows off his body very well. He could be a Career if he'd been born elsewhere.

"Akiva, Blaze, shake hands" Gwen says as I turn to Blaze, who will be my only companion until my death. His hand is strong and muscular, making me feel smaller than I ever have with my father. He could probably win, and it hits me that I probably won't.

Gwen finishes her little speech and mutters something under her breath that I don't quite catch. I have other things to worry about.

The Peacekeepers escort me to the Justice Building. I try to smile at Blaze as I walk past him, but it is mainly for my benefit. He doesn't return the gesture; probably knows it's as fake as the makeup covering Gwen's face.

The room I'm pushed into has a plush chair that feels too soft compared to the forest. There is a mirror, and I catch a glimpse of myself in it as I pass. The bruise is showing through the makeup, and my split lip has dried blood on it.

Liana and another of my friends, Janna, come in. Janna is crying as she gives me a hug; Liana hugs me too, and whispers in my ear, "Be strong, ok?" I smile at her. Janna looks at me and unfurls her hand, revealing a necklace with a wooden tree on it.

"It's beautiful," I breathe. Janna understands me so well, and she has never said a word. She has been mute since birth.

A Peacekeeper comes in and ushers them out. It unnerves me that I can't see their eyes; that is how I judge a person. I bet if I saw the Peacekeepers eyes, they would probably icy and unforgiving.

My father has cold eyes.

Jenk and Helia come in as Jenk gives me a big hug.

"Listen, Via, fight this fight. For you, not for him. You need to come back," he says. Helia looks confused, but the secret stays in the family. No one else knows. Cossa reaches out her chubby hand and curiously touches my tearstained cheek, wiping away more of the makeup. If Helia notices anything, she has enough tact not to say it. Jenk grimaces at the sight of my bruised eye.

Helia gives me a hug and kisses my cheek - and then they are gone, like so many others.

I sit in the room and blink away any last remaining tears. I have to remain tearless for the cameras that will be following my every move the minute I leave this building. The Capitol will be cheering us on to the death. They have no idea what poverty, or pain, or death feels like.

They will never know.

* * *

**District 7 | The Reaping of Blaze Echolls**

* * *

Her screams wake me up at 4am that night.

I rub my eyes, stretch my arms and yawn. She screams again, and I try to block her out, try not to think about it too much. But she screams so loudly, it seems like the walls are shaking. They aren't, of course; our walls are actually quite steady, which says something given that we live in the poorest neighborhood in District 7.

I try to get back to sleep, but I can't. I close my eyes, waiting for sleep to come. I feel like a moron, being completely awake and just looking like I am sleeping, and not actually sleeping, while my mom is screaming at the top of her lungs. In the end I just roll out of bed and throw on the first shirt and pants I find in the small pile of clothes on my wooden chair.

I walk out of my room, cringing as my mom screams again and again. Most of the time she doesn't scream that hard; he's probably hurting her even worse than usual.

That thought makes me want to run to her room and kill him with my axe, but there are three problems with it. One – my axe isn't here. And an axe is quite essential when you want to kill someone with an axe. Two – there's a strict policy in District 7, which says that if you kill someone, then you're not allowed to go to the woods. I can't be stuck in this house forever. The woods are my sanctuary, and I can't think about not going there every day to let off some steam. Finally, three – I am terrified. I am terrified of what he would do to me if I walk into the room.

It's extremely stupid, because I am stronger and tougher than him. I am eighteen, I am muscular, I am strong. He is forty, almost fifty, and he's weak and fat from all the alcohol he puts into his body. I know that I can beat him in a fight, and that knowledge makes me feel even more pathetic and weak than I already feel, because I'm still terrified of him.

I walk, practically run, out of the house and close the door behind me. I can still hear my mom's screams, even if I'm not in the house anymore. I bet the whole District can hear her. Our walls are paper thin; no one cares that there's a woman here who is beaten up regularly. As long as it's not them, why would they care?

I run a hand through my blond locks and start walking to the woods. The woods are so close to my home that I can actually see the trees from my room, so I get there fast. There is no one outside that early in the morning, which isn't irregular. No one likes to be in the woods when it's dark. You can barely see anything, and any animal can attack you out of nowhere.

I love the woods at night though, better than in daylight. Everything is completely quiet, no one's there - it's just me, alone in the woods. I feel like I'm not a part of the world outside, which makes me feel good.

It's peaceful.

I walk slowly, deeper into the woods, and the darkness envelops me. I have to narrow my eyes in concentration to see what's ahead of me. My eyesight isn't very good, and being here in the dark just makes it even more difficult for me to see. But I keep going, even if I can barely see anything. I don't _have_ to see anything. I know every inch of these woods by heart. I know where I'm going.

I stop in my place and look around me, knowing where I am exactly. I move forward until I get to my tree. Well, not _my_ tree really, but my hiding place. I get to my knees and reach out to grab the axe I hide in a small hole under the tree. The hole is big enough to contain my axe, yet small enough not to be seen by the other lumberjacks around.

With my axe in my hand I start walking to another tree. It's not a very thick tree, and I know that I can cut it down pretty easily. I fling my axe and hit the tree forcefully. I hit it again and again, feeling powerful and strong and unbeatable, all things that I'm not.

That's what I love in the woods at night. I feel like I'm the only man in the world; like I'm stronger than everyone, and it makes me feel good.

It lasts until I get back to the house, where I feel as big as a mouse.

I stay in the woods as long as I can, but when the darkness leaves I know that I have to go. I drag the trees I cut down to the edge of the woods, where I know the peacekeepers will collect them and move them to the Capitol before walking to my house.

It's Reaping day, so nobody's outside. There is no work in a special day like today, after all, and people want to stay home and sleep as much as they can.

It's already eight in the morning when I get to my house. My mom isn't screaming anymore. I open the door and get to the kitchen.

My mom sits in the kitchen next to the small wooden table, her eyes closed as if she's sleeping. Her head is resting on her hands and she breathes deeply. She's tired and weak. Her hair is grey. She has a black eye and a fat lip, and there's a bruise on her cheek. The black eye is almost healed, since she got it a long time ago. The fat lip and the bruise are new, from last night probably.

I feel sick to my stomach. I let it happen, after all, and did nothing, but I try not to think about it and turn around. I can't look at her without feeling guilty. I make two small sandwiches and sit down in front of my mom, looking at her. She opens her eyes, sensing my presence, and tries to smile at me. It doesn't look like a smile.

It looks like she's in pain.

I offer her the other sandwich without saying a word, and she silently takes it, eating slowly. I look at the table, finding it easier to look at it than at my beaten mom, and chew the sandwich. It tastes so bad, I want to throw up. But it's food, so I just suck it up and finish it.

"Where were you?" My mom asks me finally, her voice hoarse.

"In the woods," I answer simply.

My mom closes her eyes: "I don't like it that you go out to the woods by yourself at night."

"It was early morning, actually."

"It was dark outside, which means it was still night. It's not safe outside."

"It's safer than here," I murmur quietly.

My mom hears me and she shakes her head. "Blaze…"

"You're hurt."

"I'm okay."

"You look like hell."

"Thanks, that's exactly what women like to hear."

We both stay quiet for a few long minutes. I look at my mom, who simply looks defeated. She shouldn't deal with him; she knows that, but for some reason she loves him. At least, she _tells_ me she loves him. I think she's just extremely depended. She needs a man next to her, no matter how awful he is.

"I hate him," I say finally, sounding lame and weak and pathetic.

My mom looks at me blankly and doesn't say anything. She finishes her sandwich and closes her eyes again, her head now resting on the hard table.

I have so much more to say to her on the matter. I want to tell her to leave him. I want to tell _him_ to leave. I want my mom to be happy; she doesn't need a man to be happy, and even if she does, she has me. I'm strong enough to take care of her, to take care of both of us. But I don't find the right words to say it, so I stay quiet and don't say anything.

I get to my feet after a few long minutes of silence and go to my room. The Reaping is only at two o'clock, and it's now nine o'clock in the morning, so I lie on my bed and close my eyes. I'm tired, and I fall asleep almost immediately.

I wake up three hours later, but stay in my bed for half an hour longer. I just don't have the power to get up. I finally move into a sitting position in my bed and stretch my sore arms; my back aches, but it always aches. My bed is made of wood, and I don't have a mattress; we can't afford it.

I get to my feet and run a hand through my hair, making it disheveled. I have three shirts and two pants, and while none of them looks fancy or formal, that's all I have. I grab the blue pants I have and put them on, taking off my grey shirt and heading to the kitchen. There's a bucket of ice-cold water in the kitchen for us to use to clean our dishes and stuff like that. The water in the bucket is already quite dirty, so I dip the grey shirt in it and start cleaning my torso. I get back to my room and throw the wet shirt to the ground, taking my cleanest shirt, my white shirt, and putting it on.

I go to the bathroom and check my reflection in the broken mirror. The white shirt, which is torn in a few places, shows off my well-muscled torso nicely. My hair is disheveled from all the times I ran my hand through it, but it doesn't look too bad. My strong jawline makes me look intimidating.

Awesome.

I have another hour before I have to go to the main square, so I go to the kitchen again. My mom sits there with Milo, her abusive boyfriend, who's sitting silently in front of her, avoiding her eyes. He looks at me when I sit down next to my mom in front of him, but doesn't say anything and quickly turn to look at the table.

I once thought Milo was a good guy. When my mom just started dating him, he was nice and even played with me. I was ten years old. It was two years after my father died, and Milo made her look so happy, so I was happy too.

Then one night he returned home drunk and hit her mercilessly. I tried to help her; I screamed at him to stop, but he punched me so hard I lost consciousness. I woke up an hour later, terrified beyond belief to the sound of my mother's screams.

The next morning, Milo begged for her forgiveness. She forgave him, because she was stupid enough to believe it was a one-time thing.

It wasn't.

He got drunk again a month later, then after two weeks, then once a week, then every day. He stopped asking for her forgiveness after a while, because she always forgave him.

My mom is weak, and so am I. I will forever remember how he punched me when I tried to help her. I will forever be terrified of it; so, I stop trying to help her.

I hate him for hurting her. I hate my mom for letting him hurt her. Most of all, I hate myself for not helping her.

There's an uncomfortable silence that lasts until my mom and I walk out of the house to the main square. Milo doesn't come with us; he never did, not even in my very first Reaping. He doesn't consider me as family.

My mom squeezes my shoulder when we get to the main square and walks to the sidelines where the parents are. I say my name to one of the Peacekeepers and go to stand with the other eighteen year-olds.

The main square, which is quite small and looks awfully dirty, is already filled with almost all of the kids in the district. I only have to wait a few more minutes before everyone's there.

On the improvised stage in front of me are three people. The first one, who's already standing next to the microphone, is the mayor. The second one, who's sitting in a chair and looks like fire, is Gwen Boasten, our…_lovely_ escort. Next to her sits this year's mentor, Blight Thompson. He looks dead, and looked that way ever since he returned from the Games and his family died.

The mayor starts talking to the microphone, repeating things that were already said in earlier Reapings. The mayor's speech is always the same, boring and dull, about the history of the districts and about the Capitol and the rebellion that started the Hunger Games.

The mayor finishes his incredibly boring speech and moves to sit in the empty chair next to Gwen. She gets up from next her seat to a depressed Blight and moves to stand next to the microphone in the middle of the stage. Gwen has bright red hair. She has fire designs on her cheeks, and those designs are decorating her arms as well. Everything about her screams 'Fire!'

That is, until she begins to talk and you realize she's as cold as an axe's blade at night.

"Welcome to the Reaping for the 34th Hunger Games, may the odds be ever in your favor, I hope you survive," She says it very fast and very flat, like she rehearsed it way too many times and doesn't mean a single thing she says. She just doesn't like us, very much. She's stuck with us and wants a better district, a Career district, to bring home a winner. The kids here in District Seven are pathetic and lame, and she hates it.

What a bitch.

"Let's get this over with," She murmurs and walks to the girls' reaping bowl first. She puts her hand in the bowl and grabs the first piece of paper she touches. She unfolds it and reads the name that's written there in the same flat voice she used before.

"Akiva Chellan."

I look around me like everyone else to see who the poor girl is. I can see her only when she starts moving; she's so small and it's hard to see her in the big crowd. I can see that she has a reddish-brown hair and freckles. When she gets to the stage, I notice her eyes: The greenest eyes I've ever seen.

She walked from the line of the fifteen year-old kids, so I know that she's fifteen years old, even if she's as small as a twelve or a thirteen year-old girl.

She stands quietly next to a bored Gwen and looks down at her hands. She touches her soft yellow skirt absentmindedly, probably to distract herself from what just happened. Gwen nods at her silently and asks if there are any volunteers. There are none, which is not surprising. Gwen then moves to the boys' reaping bowl, not wasting any minute.

She again picks the first piece of paper her hand makes contact with and unfolds it.

"Blaze Echolls."

Well, fuck.

To be honest, I really don't know what to think as I start walking to the stage. I just walk, not thinking of anything in particular. Being selected to participate in The Hunger Games is supposed to be a punishment.

It doesn't feel like that much of a punishment to me.

My life sucks as it is. Maybe these Games could be my way to escape this life, this miserableness. I'm either going to die or be a victor.

Both things actually sound appealing.

I get to the stage pretty quickly and walk up the stairs. I pass the little fifteen year old girl and stand next to Gwen. Gwen nods at me like she did with Akiva and says, "Are there any volunteers?"

I look at the crowd, knowing that no one will volunteer. I have only one friend, and he's weaker than me. No one else would want to risk their lives to save mine.

Gwen then says in her oh-I'd-rather-be-anywhere-but-here-you're-so-pathetic-I-hate-you-all tone, "Akiva, Blaze, shake hands."

Akiva raises her eyes and looks at me, waiting for me to make the first move. Now that I look at her closely, I see that, although she probably tried really hard to hide it, she has a bruise on her face. I bite my lower lip, because it just reminds me of my mother, but try to ignore the feeling. Maybe she simply accidently walked into a tree. I step forward and take her hand, shaking it once, then drop it. Her hand is so soft and gentle that I feel bad for her. She seems too gentle to be in these Games.

Gwen then steps forward and says, "District Seven, I present to you – Akiva and Blaze, your tributes for the 34th annual Hunger Games." She then quickly leaves the stage, murmuring something about, "Stupid district, so small and crowded, they have no chance."

Again, what a bitch.

Four Peacekeepers come and lead me and Kiara off the stage and towards the Justice Building. Akiva smiles softly at me as two of the four Peacekeepers lead her to a room farther down the hall. I don't know if I should smile back or don't, so I just decide not to smile. The two other Peacekeepers open a door a few meters from me and tell me to get inside. They tell me I have an hour to say goodbye to my loved ones, then walk out of the room and close the door behind them.

I only have to wait for a few seconds before the door opens again. In comes my mother.

She's crying. I make my way to where she's standing next to the door and hug her. She hugs me tightly in response, sobbing and wetting my almost-clean white shirt. Eventually I pull back and look at my mom. She hiccups and a few more tears run down her face.

"Mom," I say, because I don't know what else to say.

Her hands are trembling as she holds my face with them: "You're so young," She states, her voice shaking terribly. It's hoarse, as usual.

"I'm eighteen," I say lamely.

She shakes her head. "I need you. I need you with me. I can't – you need to stay here, I – what am I going to do without you?"

I bite my lower lip. "Leave," I say quietly.

She blinks. "What?"

"Leave the district if you can. Try to move to another district, a _better_ district."

"Why?"

"You know why."

She gulps loudly. "I love him," She lies. I know she lies, but maybe she doesn't know that herself. She lies to herself as well because she's afraid of being alone.

"Well, he doesn't love you."

She closes her eyes. "Blaze, just… don't. Don't talk about things that you don't understand, and not now. It doesn't matter now. You're going to The Hunger Games, you're – let's not talk about Milo. You're the only thing that's important right now."

I know I should say, "No, mom, you have to promise me to leave Milo and the district and start fresh, because you can't stay with him," but I don't. Instead, I nod my head, because I'm weak and pathetic and let important things like that go.

My mom hugs me tightly again and sighs, "Please come back."

I don't want to come back. Not to this house, not to Milo. But I nod anyway, because I know that's what she wants to hear: "I'll try my best."

"I need you," She repeats what she said earlier. This is a complete lie, of course. I've never actually helped her, even when she needed me the most, so how can she possibly need me?

I don't say anything and just let her hug me a while longer.

In the end, the two Peacekeepers open the door and tell my mom her time is up. She reluctantly lets go of me, but then she kisses my forehead and says, "I love you."

I bite my lower lip, then nod at her and tell her that I love her too. She smiles, a weak, unhappy smile, and she's still crying when she walks out of the room.

I run a hand through my hair and sit down in the big green sofa in the room. Everything in this room is green, except for the walls and floor, which are both made of wood. This room just screams 'District Seven, Trees!'

I let myself think of what might happen in case I won't come back. I won't have to deal with this constant pain. I won't have to see Milo ever again. I won't have to come back to a mother that I feel _ashamed_ of. I won't have to feel anything ever again.

I'm happy with that thought.

I have to wait ten minutes before my next – and probably last – visitor arrives.

Jasper Brown.

He stands by the door awkwardly, unsure of what to do, and I just look at him for a few moments, waiting for him to come forward.

He's my best friend; has been for the last three years. I'm two years older than him, strong and built and confident where he's awkward and scrawny with huge glasses. We're so different from each other; people don't understand how we can actually be friends.

Maybe we're friend _because_ we're so different, and not in spite of it.

In the end he makes a few steps towards me and giggles nervously: "How do you feel?" He starts cracking his knuckles, a thing he does whenever he's nervous or worried or excited. I hate that habit, but I don't say anything and let him continue with ruining his hands.

"Brilliant," I say in a flat tone, not meaning it but not terribly bitter about it.

He keeps cracking his knuckles. "Are you scared?"

I think about it for a few moments, then shake my head: "Are you?" I ask him. He looks scared.

He nods his head, always honest with me: "Will you try your best to come home?"

I nod. Being a victor is, after all, better than being dead. Maybe then I'd be able to kill Milo without being killed myself.

Oh, one of the benefits of being a victor.

Jasper is quiet for a few more moments: "Do you have a token?" He asks finally.

I shake my head. He hesitates, then walks a few more steps until he's right in front of me and grabs his shirt. I look at him in question, not sure what he's about to do. He rips a long piece of his red shirt, then looks at me awkwardly.

"I don't have anything else to give you," He says apologetically. "But – I just – I want to give you something. It really doesn't matter what, right? Just something to help you – to help you remember us by. Me. The district." He bites his lower lip. "I thought that you can use a piece of my shirt as a – a hand band or something. You don't have to, of course, it's stupid, but, I mean –"

I can't help but smirk at him as he stutters, "Just tie it up around my wrist."

He nods his head and does as I said, then looks at me, still cracking his knuckles. "I'm sorry that it's you," He says.

"I'm happy that it's not you," I reply.

He smiles at that and hugs me. It takes me a bit by surprise; I'm not really the hugging type and neither is he, but I hug him back because it might be the last time I see him. He's my best friend, and I need him just as much as he needs me; maybe even more.

In the end he pulls back, his cheeks a bit red, and looks at the ground: "Win," He says simply.

"Okay," I say, because really, what can I say to that?

He looks at me again, as if trying to remember every physical feature of me, then smiles a weak smile and walks out of the room, leaving me there alone with my thoughts.

* * *

_**Writers for this chapter: Akiva Chellan written by Capirksy | Blaze Echolls written by Spaidel**_


	9. The Culling: District 8's Reaping

_Daughter of industry and decay, born of plague and passing,_

_Hewn by the test of time for the reaper's bloody massing._

_Death is no stranger to District 8's offering._

* * *

**District 8 | The Reaping of Lacey Weft**

* * *

I can't help but shiver as I turn down Angora Avenue where I used to live. It looks like any other road in District 8; rundown tenements line the streets, exposed brickwork covered in soot and grime. The same cracked walls and broken windows, the same broken glass covers the pavements; the same small circles of candlelight burn in the windows - but it is not the same. I hold my breath as I pass along it, trying to focus on the space in front of me. It's impossible to ignore what surrounds me.

Four years ago this road was shut off for quarantine- no one was allowed within twenty meters of the place, and no one was allowed out. The peacekeepers stood with masks over their faces and their guns ready to shoot anyone who tried to escape. I know why they did it; they didn't want everyone to get sick - but I wish I hadn't been caught in the middle of it.

I was nine years old and we - my parents, my two sisters, my brother and I - lived in the second tenement on the left in a third floor apartment. We woke up one day and suddenly were not allowed to leave the road. None of us had the virus, but they still wouldn't let us go - because it had already started to spread.

They used to send food packages each day, but not enough to feed everyone. Mama said we could only eat a little bit at a time, which left us always hungry. I heard afterwards that there were around three hundred and fifty apartments down Angora Avenue, and that around one thousand four-hundred people lived there when the virus took over. Only around fifty of them had the virus when the route was shut off, but within a month, pretty much everyone was infected.

The food ran out long before we did.

My brother and I used to scavenge food from other people's apartments. You could always tell no one lived there by the smell; they never cleaned out the bodies. We wrapped scarves around our noses and mouths and raided the cupboards for anything left behind. Some people would steal from the living, but I was always too scared to do that.

After another month, the peacekeepers came into the block with their special quarantine uniforms on. They started carrying out all the bodies and piling them up in the middle of the road. I watched from our window, wide-eyed as the pile got too big they set fire to it. I still remember gagging on those awful fumes.

I was seated under the window, holding my raggedy old doll when the man found me. I think he was more surprised about it than I was. No one was supposed to be alive.

I was taken away in a strange white van, and I remember how they prodded and tested every inch of me but couldn't find anything wrong. Out of all those people, _I_ was the only one to get out. I heard someone say it was a miracle, and I didn't know what that meant at the time Now that I do, I don't think I agree with them.

After that, my raggedy doll and I went to live with Aunt Cotton and Grandma Gabardine on Thimble Street. I like it well enough, but I hate going down my old road and will usually take the long way round to the factory just to avoid it.

Tonight, I can't. As I turn down Bobbin Walk I finally let my breath out, knowing that Angora Avenue is behind me.

After searching for grandma all night, it is a relief when I see her standing in the glow of one of the electric lights. She is staring up into the blank sky as if she can see the stars, except you _never_ see the stars in District Eight. When I get closer, I hear that she is humming to herself.

"Grandma?" She stares right through me, right through the tenements on Bobbin Walk, right through the world. "Grandma, it's me, Lacey."

She pats me on my cheek but doesn't really acknowledge me. I feel sorry for her. The worse it gets the more cut off she seems; she gets stuck in silence and loneliness, unable find a way out. I wish there was a way to help her, but Aunt Cotton says we just have to look after her and bring her back to us as much as we can.

She is always wandering off these days. She forgets where she is meant to be or even where she is currently, so she goes off in search of somewhere else. Sometimes she asks us to take her home even when we already are there. Aunt Cotton says she is confused and thinks she lives where she lived when she was a girl.

I take her by the elbow and lead her back towards home. Aunt Cotton will finish her shift at the factory soon. She'll be worried if she comes home and finds the apartment empty.

Luckily we get there first, and the whole place is completely dark. I sit grandma down in the chair and put a blanket across her lap. For a moment she looks at me and smiles through the shadows. I get a candle out of the kitchen drawer and light it, setting it down by the window.

I take my raggedy doll from off the sofa and place it on Grandma's lap. "Do you remember her?" I ask her.

She runs her fingers over the old fabric, feeling every ridge in the two old button eyes.

"You made her for me when I was little out of the scraps that no one wanted."

She lifts her eyes to look at me, to look through me. Suddenly, I feel completely alone.

Aunt Cotton is better at bringing her back to us than I am, as she can remember more. She talks to Grandma about her childhood and all the other old stories she used to tell.

The candle gutters from the draft wafting in from beneath the door. Soon it will go out completely and we will be left in darkness again. I pull up grandma's blankets, tucking the ends down the side of the chair. She smiles absently, humming a few notes from a forgotten tune. Familiar footsteps pound up the stairs, followed by my aunt's keys in the lock. It's the same fumbling sound I hear every night as she struggles to get the key lined up in just the right way.

I spring to my feet; she's finally home. As she pushes open the door I run to her, throwing myself into her arms, resting my head against her shoulder.

"You're back!" I scream. She laughs and suddenly everything feels a little better.

She helps grandma get into her bed then the pair of us curl up on the sofa together and share stories about our days. When I tell her about Grandma she holds me a little closer.

"You did good, kiddo," she says. "Grandma's lucky to have you to look after her."

"She doesn't even remember who I am."

"She can't help it. I know if she had a choice, she would always remember you first."

I don't remember falling asleep but when I wake up the next morning, I am still on the sofa. A bright mid-morning light bursts in through the curtains. I must have slept in: It takes me a moment to remember why I don't have to go to school. Then, a familiar, nervous lurch jolts my stomach and I know why.

It's Reaping day.

This is my second year in the Reaping but my name is in the ball eight times after I signed up for tesserae.

Aunt Cotton is already up and cooking breakfast. She works so hard- she gets up before everyone else and goes to bed after we're all asleep. I don't know how she does it. She smiles at me as she dollops porridge into my bowl.

"Hey, sleepy-head, I was wondering when you were going to wake up," She carries the porridge across to me and sits down on the end of the sofa. "How are you feeling?"

I shrug.

"Once the Reaping is over you won't have to worry about it for another year."

"I've got no choice in it so I've just got to get through it," It's what my mama used to tell me. She would always say, 'No matter how bad a situation is, you will always find a way to get through it, and things will always be better on the other side'.

I force each spoonful of porridge into my mouth and gulp it down. It's like eating wallpaper paste.

For a moment Aunt Cotton just stares at me, and I know there is something she wants to say - she has that look on her face. People feel they need to say things on Reaping Day, just in case they don't have another chance.

"I'm proud of you," Aunt Cotton finally says. She is smiling but I can tell she is kind of sad. She worries about things and Reaping Day is just another reason.

"For what?"

She shrugs, "For everything." She gives me a strange, sideways hug which I struggle to return while not spilling my porridge.

"You know I'm proud of you too," I tell her.

"For what?" she says, imitating me exactly.

"For everything! People need to tell you that more often. "

She sticks her tongue out at me and ruffles my hair, "Eat up, you'll need your strength."

I get dressed in a very old but clean dress. It is nothing special: The hem has fallen down at the bottom, but hopefully no one will notice. I pull on my socks and buckle my shoes. I'm ready now; I will get through this, and tonight the three of us will be nestled up safe together.

When I step out into the main room, I see that Grandma Gabardine is eating her porridge while Aunt Cotton tells her about the people she used to know at the textiles factory. When I step into the room, Grandma stretches out her hands towards me, cutting Aunt Cotton off mid-sentence.

"Why look at her!" she says smiling. "There's my little Linnie. When did you grow up so much, eh?" If she acknowledges me at all, she always calls me by my mother's name.

I kiss her cheek and turn to Aunt Cotton, "I'd better go."

"Alright. We'll see you later, alright?"

I nod.

As I head out onto Thimble Street, I join the herd of children all headed in the same direction. Some of them I recognize from school, or from the factory, but mostly they are just unfamiliar faces; just more pairs of plodding feet. Some groups walk as families - brothers and sisters lined up together. Reaping Day is for families, in some somber way.

I suppose the square is meant to look intimidating; somehow, everything looks bigger on Reaping day. I don't know if it is the banners, the screens, or the countless peacekeepers that surround the place. I am shorter and smaller than almost everyone. I wish Aunt Cotton could have been here with me, but she has to make sure Grandma is okay.

I feel lost in the crowd. Today I am no miracle; today I am not the little girl who can survive anything. I am just another name in the reaping ball.

I push my way through the hordes, trying to find the area cordoned off for thirteen year-olds near the back. I am grateful to find my friend Florence standing near the edge of the group, so I join her nervously.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," I reply, and we both stand awkwardly searching for something to say that isn't about the Reaping. I guess we can't think of anything, because in the end we both stand in silence.

Florence stands on her tiptoes, looking at the fifteen year-olds who stand a couple of groups in front, looking for her sister. She waves, smiles, and mouths some words to her and I begin to wonder what it would have been like - if my big sisters had been standing there, what things would I have said to them?

What words of encouragement could they have given me?

District Eight's only Victor, Woof, takes his seat on the stage next to Mayor Pearce and Emelie Locket, the escort for District 8. The three of them stare grimly out towards us, watching the final people arrive and waiting for the clock to strike twelve in only mere minutes.

I've just got to get through this; things will be better on the other side, I remind myself again and again. I am almost relieved when Mayor Pearce gives his usual introduction about the history of Panem, because at least it gives me a reason not to talk to Florence.

"Now let us celebrate District Eight's past victor- Woof Burrell."

Woof gets to his feet as we all applaud. We may not have had much success in the past, but that's all the more reason to be glad we've got Woof. Grandma used to say he gave people hope, because it showed how even a poor District like Eight can sometimes win. He won the year I was born, when he was seventeen years old. I've never seen his Games, but I've heard plenty about them. Each year on Reaping Day there is always someone who wants to retell _that_ story

Finally, Emelie Locket is introduced, and she steps forward to take her place at the microphone. "Happy Thirty-fourth Hunger Games!" she coos. "What an honor it is to be back in District 8. Let's hope the odds are in your favor, and the Reaping brings pride to the district."

She minces over to the girls' reaping ball, crossing her fingers in an over-dramatic way - as if she really wishes us luck - and reaches into the stylized glass.

My heart is pounding. It will all be over soon. She will read out the name, and then it will all be over.

It seems to take an age for her to grab hold of a single slip of paper and pull it out. She opens it as she approaches the microphone again, and a broad smile spreads across her face. Everyone draws in a deep breath, and the square falls into silence as we anticipate what is to come. I feel sick; my stomach is flipping over and over, and I will the words to come out; any name but mine, anyone but me. Anyone but me… one more second and it will all be over.

"Lacey Weft."

It's not over.

My knees buckle beneath me, and a hand grabs me and pulls me upwards, directing me out to the clear pathway that leads up to the stage.

I look around, hoping that Aunt Cotton will come running out of nowhere and sweep me up into her arms, but no one appears. I can't see her anywhere. Heat rises across my face and for a moment I think I might cry.

It is a long walk from the group of thirteens at the back to the stage. I can feel all eyes looking at me, waiting to see what I am going to do. I take in a deep breath. I can do this - I _have_ to be able to do this, because I am going to survive just like I did before. I have something that no other tribute has - I have stared death, hunger, and devastation in the face, and I am still here to tell the tale. I will do this.

I feel steadier by the time I climb up the steps. No one will have let me survive Angora Avenue just to kill me now. That's not how it works.

As I walk by, Woof gives me a friendly wink and I smile back at him, hoping everyone will see my resolution to make it through.

Now I am stood on the stage I can see better. Aunt Cotton and Grandma Gabardine have moved to the front of a group of adults so they can see me. Aunt Cotton pushes up on her chin; it's her way of telling me to keep my chin up. I nod back at her so she knows I understand. Grandma Gabardine is clapping, even though everyone else has finished. She gives a loud whistle and I can't help but smile, even though Aunt Cotton is trying to get her to be quiet.

"And now for our male tribute," Emelie Locket continues. This time she seems to pick out a name quite quickly, but maybe it just feels that way because there is no longer a chance of my name being called.

"Corduroy Weaver."

It takes me a moment to pinpoint him, but soon I notice a tall seventeen year-old making his way through his group to get to the stage. He makes it about halfway along the line before the realization of what is happening spreads across his face. He falters for a moment, then composes himself.

We two tributes stand beside each other as the crowd applauds again when we shake hands. His grip is cold and clammy, and I am pleased when I let go of it. He seems pretty strong and he looks massive now that he is close up, but he also appears very nervous. His face has turned a pale shade of green, and I can see his lip is trembling.

"It'll be okay," I whisper to him, but that just seems to tip him over the edge. A tear trickles down the side of his face - I can see him trying to pull them back, but he can't. It is lucky that the anthem plays at that moment and drowns out his sobs.

The peacekeepers lead us away inside the justice building. I am taken to a small room and left alone.

There is only a very small window, and it is too high for me to see out of, so I slip off my shoes and climb on top of the sofa. It isn't much of a view. All I can see is the bakery over on the opposite side of the road. A young boy passes, followed by a man and woman who walk arm in arm, but otherwise, the place is quiet.

"Oi you, feet off the furniture!" I turn road and jump off the sofa landing in front of Aunt Cotton.

Grandma Gabardine goes to sit down, settling herself on the comfortable cushions. Within moments her head begins to tilt forward as she begins to nod off to sleep.

"I've got something for you," my aunt says.

"What is it?"

She pulls out my raggedy doll from behind her back and presses it into my arms.

"Why are you giving me my old raggedy doll?"

"She's been with you so long, she's been through it all with you, and I thought…" she stops to wipes the tears from her eyes, unable to continue.

I hug her tight, holding my raggedy doll between us. I guess she's right. I might not be able to take a doll into the arena, but I am going to need someone with me in the Capitol that I can trust.

"You are going to come back to me," she whispers into my ear. "Even when everyone else leaves, you always come back."

Her tears fall against my cheek, and the more she cries, the bigger the lump grows in my throat. Everyone is always leaving my Aunt Cotton.

"You're a good girl," she whispers, "A kind girl, and brave. You can do this, _you can do this_ - I know you can," She gives me a final squeeze- so tight I feel as though my ribs might meet. "Now say goodbye to your grandma."

I finally pull away from my aunt and kneel down in front of my grandma, holding her hand in mine. She doesn't wake up, but I figure I should say goodbye anyway.

"Thanks for giving me my raggedy doll, Grandma. I think of you every time I look at her. I am going to miss you while I'm away, but I promise I am going to come back," Aunt Cotton rests her hand on my shoulder and I look up at her, "I'm going to come back to both of you."

Everything is going to be alright. I have no choice but to do this; therefore, I know I am going to get through it.

I am going to find a way to survive – again.

* * *

_**Authors for this chapter: Lacey Weft written by speccy13**_


	10. Oblivion: District 9's Reaping

****_Founded on emptiness; divorced from bonds,  
_

_A son's quest for identity threatned by death beyond.  
_

_District 9's representative, torn between oblivion and enlightenment.  
_

* * *

**District 9 | The Reaping of Alexander Cole**

* * *

My name is Alexander Cole.

The light from the kerosene lamp sitting on the table flickers across the yellowed pages of my book. It's two, maybe three, in the morning; the morning of the Reaping. Sleep seems to have eluded me now that the thirty-fourth Hunger Games are here. The only thing that puts my mind at ease is that this is my last Hunger Games. Five weeks from now and I will be nineteen, safe from any more of the Capitol's sick form of entertainment.

The house is quiet except for the light snores coming from my father's bedroom just a few feet down the hall. If today wasn't the day of the Reaping, he would be waking up in just two hours to go to his job. My father, Dale Cole, owns and runs one of the electrical companies in District 9. He leaves for work at four-thirty every morning and doesn't usually come home until the sun has sunk below the horizon. He'll eat dinner, usually something I have cooked, and then head to bed. We rarely converse. Neither of us ever have anything to say to the other.

I never knew my mother. She died after childbirth the day I was born: I don't even have a picture of her. I've been told I have her reddish-brown hair and emerald green eyes, but even my dad doesn't ever talk about her. I can understand that it must be painful for him; I've been told by neighbors that my father loved my mother very much.

I sometimes wonder if the reason my father is so distant from me is because he blames me for my mother's death. If it hadn't been for me, she would still be alive. It makes sense. On the other hand, maybe I just remind him of my mother too much. My father never really seems angry at me; just very distant and cold. I don't think I've ever seen him smile. He's always quiet and seems a bit angry about something. If we ever do speak, he's usually telling me to clean something up or that he needs me to help him out at the factory that day.

That's our relationship: Silence and orders.

I spend most of my time alone. I don't really have any friends - I'm a pretty shy guy. I'd much rather spend my time reading than going out with a bunch of people. At school, I would keep to myself and just focus on my studies. I've acquired a lot of knowledge over the years.

I watch as the sun begins its ascension into the light blue sky of District 9. On any other day, people would be waking up and greeting the day. Workers would be heading to the factories, heading to harness electricity for the Capitol. Children would either be heading to school or running out to play with their friends, but not today. Today, shutters are tightly closed. Everyone is trying to put barriers between them and the horrors that the Reaping is sure to bring.

Tonight, hundreds of families will celebrate the fact that their children have been spared for another year. But for two families, sadness will overcome their hearts as they pull their shutters closed, not wanting to hear the celebrations from the other families whose children will not be sent to a slaughterhouse.

After a week of media frenzy, they will watch helplessly as their child fights for his or her life in the arena that the Gamemakers have chosen for this year's annual Hunger Games. There is no telling what it will look like and what horrid creatures it could be home to. Sometimes not knowing is the scariest thing of all.

The sound of my father stirring pulls me from my thoughtful daze. I push away from the kitchen table, the wooden legs of my chair screeching against the wooden floor. I head out to the large oak tree on our property and manage to scurry up just high enough to scoop a few eggs from a robin's nest.

You would think since my father owns and operates one of the electricity factories that we would have enough money to buy our food. I wish we did. Instead, I spend my early mornings stealing eggs from nests and picking fruit from the bushes surrounding our skinny, two-story "house".

I smile at Mrs. Sye, our next door neighbor, as we complete a trade of freshly picked berries for half a pound of meat. I learned not to ask what kind of meat it was after a few of our trades. I'm better off not knowing.

Mrs. Sye has been a great neighbor over the years and, I guess, you could call her a friend. She used to keep an eye on me when my father would work all day, before I started going to school. She's also always up for a fair trade. She raises chickens and sometimes catches wild animals in homemade traps.

Really, she's been more of a parent to me than my father has over the years. As far as I know, Mrs. Sye doesn't have any children of her own. I don't think I've ever met or have heard Mr. Sye mentioned. It's kind of sad that she doesn't have any family.

I head back into the house. The bathroom door is shut and my father's feet shuffle on the other side of the door. I sigh before moving to the small stove that sits in our kitchen. I crack the eggs into a pan and let them fry while I cut up the meat and throw it into a second pan.

I guess you could say that my father and I are in the middle of the class-spectrum. We have nowhere near the kind of money the Peacekeepers in District 9 make, but we aren't dirt poor either. We're pretty comfortable at our place; it helps that there's only two of us, too. Most of the families in the District have at least two or more kids to feed and clothe every day. Here, there's just dad and I.

In less than ten minutes, the small kitchen is full of breakfast aromas and sizzling. I set out plates and transfer the food onto them just as I hear the bathroom door creak open. My father, a tall, well-built man, takes a seat at the kitchen table as I hand him a plate of eggs and meat.

Really, if you didn't know either of, there's no way you would think we were related in any way, let alone father and son. My father has black hair that is beginning to recede from his forehead and a dark mustache atop his upper lip. His dark brown eyes are a startling opposition to my bright green ones.

Our builds are also completely different. My father is tall, standing at six-foot-four, and broad shouldered. Sometimes I swear the ground beneath his feet shakes when he walks. I, on the other hand, am just six feet tall and am a stick figure in comparison to my father.

We eat in a heavy silence; the only sounds in the room are the occasional _clang _of a metal fork meeting a plate. I wish I could attribute my father's cold manner to the fact that today is the day of the Reaping, but I can't. We're always like this; cold and distant.

Once we have finished our breakfast, I put the plates in the sink. I don't bother doing them now; I'll have plenty of time after the Reaping. I finish clearing off the table and then head out the door once again.

I walk out to a bluff of rocks that have been warmed by the golden sun. I take a seat on one and close my eyes, relishing in the feeling of the water that sprays onto me from the lake below. District 9 sits on a chain of five different lakes, once called the Great Lakes. All the factories in the District are situated on the Lakes so that we can use its water to make electricity: Tshe Capitol's electricity. Of course, we don't get to _use _any of the electricity we slave to harness. It all belongs to the Capitol.

In just a few weeks, I will be joining my father in his factory. I'll be forced to work twelve, fourteen, or even sixteen-hour days; slaving away to meet the greedy demands of the rich and plush citizens of the Capitol for the rest of my life.

I take a deep breath through my nose as I watch the water lap at the rocks. It's a dark color, having been polluted for so many decades upon decades. I imagine that, at one point in time, this place was beautiful and serene.

I scoot down to a rock that meets the water and stick my feet into the chilly water. Despite the warm, early summer air, the water is still ice cold. It _is _a beautiful day. The sky is light blue, without a cloud in sight. The steady sun and the gentle breeze provide the perfect harmony. After about an hour, I get up and head back into the house to begin readying myself for the Reaping.

I head into the bathroom and close the door behind me as I strip off my clothes. I dip a rag in a basin of lukewarm water and then use it to wash off my body. I cup some water in my hands and then use it to wash my curly, reddish brown hair. I'll have to have Mrs. Sye cut it for me again soon.

I take a moment to survey myself in the cracked, rectangular mirror hanging on the wall of the bathroom. I am a very unimpressive boy: My arms and chest are not rippling with muscles. My legs are a bit more muscular; I've been told by a few people at school that I was a good runner. I would occasionally win races we'd have during gym class. I didn't really believe them; just brushed off their compliments.

I'm not used to being complimented.

I take the sharp blade my father uses to keep his mustache in perfection and run it once over my own face. The metal is cool against my flesh. I knick myself, right beneath my cheek bone, and a warm trickle of blood descends down the rest of my cheek. I hold the rag against it until it clots and stop bleeding.

I head up the rickety stairs to my bedroom. I pull on a pair of grey dress pants that I've worn to the Reaping for the last couple of years. I can still remember my first Reaping and how terrified I was: I was just twelve years old; a mere child. My fear had been so real, I had been convinced my name was going to be called - but it wasn't, and still hasn't been. Finally, this Reaping will be my last. The odds are in my favor, I suppose.

I fasten the last button of my plain, white dress shirt and sit down on my bed to put my shoes on. I am borrowing a pair of my father's black dress shoes. They are a bit beat up; my father has had them for many years. He actually wore these very shoes the day he married my mother. I run my hand over the worn out and tearing black leather, wondering how much a pair of shoes like this would cost us now.

I sigh as I stand up from my bed. I have just forty-five minutes before the Reaping will begin. I feel a knot becoming tighter and tighter in my stomach - I really shouldn't be nervous. Compared to the kids that have had to take out tesserae, the odds are in my favor. My name has only been entered into that Reaping bowl seven times.

Twenty minutes later, my father and I are walking through the district on our way to the Square. Around us, the other families are also solemnly heading in the same direction. Two girls about twenty yards ahead of me catch my eye. One has dark, wavy hair, and is wearing a white, lace dress and black shoes. Beside her there is a younger, blonde haired girl. Maybe they're sisters: At the Square, all the children eligible of being Reaped are organized by gender and then by age.

Standing on the stage that was built just for today is Marianne Diamond. She is wearing a bright purple dress that matches her short cropped hair and high heeled shoes with a print of some wildcat on them.

Marianne Diamond is possibly the most prudish, most selfish escort in all of Panem. She has a tall and slender build and looks down her surgically altered nose at every member of every district, obviously thinking that she is better than anyone in the districts solely because she is product of the Capitol.

If you ask me, that isn't something to be so proud of.

There are three chairs on the stage. One belongs to Marianne Diamond, another to the mayor of District 9, and then, in the last one, is Sophia Deveroux. Sophia is the Victor of the Thirty-Third Hunger Games and ranks as the youngest victor ever. She's only fourteen, four years younger than I am.

She won her Games by laying low and using poisons on the other Tributes when necessary. The Hunger Games drove her to insanity. Since she returned to District 9, she has been shunned by almost everyone in the district, including her own family. She always looks a bit frightened, like she thinks she's in the arena.

Somewhere off in the distance, a chime rings, signaling that it is two o'clock. The mayor of District 9 gets up from his seat and reads the same thing he does every year, a history of Panem and the Dark Days and how the Hunger Games came to be. I could probably recite it better than the mayor himself after hearing it for my entire life. Once the mayor has finished, Marianne Diamond takes the stage. She moves to the podium and begins with the signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

"Ladies first!" She calls in her high pitched Capitol accent as she moves over to the girls' Reaping ball. Her fingers swish through the slips of paper for a few moments before she plucks one out. I find myself wishing I had someone to be worried about - someone to hope that doesn't go into the Games. But, I don't. I have no one to care about. As far as I am concerned, I am all on my own.

"Ivy Cameron!" Marianne Diamond announces, putting on an entirely fake smile for the cameras. It is easy to see that she has had one too many surgeries to keep away the wrinkles in a desperate attempt to hold onto her youth.

My eyes flicker over to a girl who is making her way to the stage. I am slightly startled to see that it is the same dark, wavy haired girl in the lace dress that caught my eye on the way to the Square. Behind her, the younger blonde girl is crying and shouting. I think she may have attempted to volunteer for the older, dark haired girl. _Ivy, her name is Ivy_, I tell myself. The older girl refuses to let the younger one volunteer and makes her way up to the stage.

"Now for the boys!" Marianne Diamond chirps excitedly, moving over to the boys' Reaping bowl. I can feel the blood pounding in my ears. My chest feels tight. _Only seven slips,_ I remind myself. There are only seven slips of paper in the bowl of thousands that reads my name. She couldn't possibly pick _my _name.

"Alexander Cole!" The world around me goes entirely still and silent as the sound of my name rings in my ears, like an eternal echo. I have a faint idea that the boys around me are staring at me. I feel a poke in my back. The world changes from its stagnancy to full on spinning. I feel dizzy.

Two men dressed in white grab each of my arms, forcing me up to the stage. I taste bile in the back of my throat. What is happening? Is this even possible? What? Once I am on the stage, the Peacekeepers let go of me. I clench my fists at my sides and force myself to breath. I am so dizzy that I fear I might topple off the stage and into the crowds of people.

Marianne Diamond announces us to the people of District 9 and tells us to shake hands. For the first time I look at Ivy Cameron: Her wavy black hair contrasts nicely with her pretty, green eyes. She is tall, just a few inches shorter than I am.

_She's pretty, _I think as I hold out my hand to her. She grasps it in hers and we shake, never breaking eye contact. I swallow dryly.

Ivy and I are both whisked away into the Justice Building. My brain barely manages to register that this is where we will say our goodbyes to our family members. I wonder if my father will even bother to show up.

I am practically shoved into a room and then left alone. I take in the room: Plush, velvet couches and chairs, expensive mahogany tables and bookshelves that are lined with the most expensive-looking books I've ever see. The deep red carpet sinks beneath weight of my foot as I move to take a seat on a plush, burgundy couch.

Just as I sit down, it hits me. I've been reaped. I am going into the Hunger Games. I am going to be contestant in the Thirty-Fourth Annual Hunger Games. In a little over a week, I could be dead. _Who's going to do this morning's dishes? _I think. Surely, dad won't have time to do the housework and cook for himself. I always do all that stuff. I'm not even sure if my father knows _how _to cook. Before I was old enough to learn, Mrs. Sye would cook and clean for my father for a small price.

The sturdy, wooden door to the room opens, jarring me from my internal worries, and my father steps into the room. He shuts the door behind him and we remain in an uneasy silence. Even now, when I am being sent away for slaughter, he has nothing to say to me; no tips for the arena, no worrisome words. I don't even get the simplest expression of endearment.

"You're smart," My father says, startlingly breaking the cocoon of silence after a good two minutes of. I look up at him, my eyebrows furrowed in confusion at his words. "You're always reading those books, so you must be smart. You could use that as an advantage."

I bite my lower lip. Is this his way of expressing his love for me? I nod back at him just as a Peacekeeper comes to the door. All too soon, the only family I've ever had is whisked away; my odds of ever seeing him again very slim.

I lean back into the couch, my mind still going over my father's words. I prepare to wait for a while since I know that I have no one else that will come see me. I don't have any other family or friends. So, of course, I nearly jump into the air when the door opens again.

Again, my brows furrow in confusion. Mrs. Sye is standing just inside the door. I am confused as to why she would come to see me. Sure, we're neighbors and we often trade with each other and I would even venture to call her a friend . . . but still, why would she want to come see me? So, when she comes over and sits next to me on the plush couch, I remain awkwardly still.

"Oh, Alex, dear, this is such a tragic turn of events." Mrs. Sye says. I remain silent and still, unsure of how to respond. "Now, I know you weren't expecting me to show up here, but I wanted to give you something before you left for the Capitol."

Mrs. Sye hands me a piece of paper. I blink a few times at it: It is a very old, faded, painted picture of a young woman. I look up to Mrs. Sye for some sort of explanation.

"That's your mother," She tells me, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. I want to ask her how she got this or how she knew my mother, but the words seem to not want to form. "I painted this picture the morning she married your father."

I take another look at the picture. The woman, my . . . my mother, is wearing an old looking, white dress, her curly, reddish brown hair flowing down past her shoulders.

"This was hers," Mrs. Sye says as she hands me a pendant on a string. I hold it in my palm; a lightning bolt. "That has been in your family for many generations. I was your mother's; a family heirloom. She was wearing it the day you were born. She asked me to make sure it got to you. She wanted me to give it to you at the right time. I think now is the right time."

My mind is absolutely reeling. Mrs. Sye knew my mother. She was there the day I was born, the day my mother died.

A Peacekeeper knocks at the door, signaling that Mrs. Sye's visiting time is up. Before getting up to leave, Mrs. Sye pats my cheek and kisses my forehead. I watch as she exits the small room, leaving me alone. I am consumed by a feeling of lonesomeness that is bigger than I've ever felt in my entire life.

I clutch the tiny pendant and photo in my hand. These two, small things are the only connection I have to my late mother. I open my palm and study the photo. My mother had the same tight curly, reddish brown hair that I have. In the photo, she is smiling, her emerald green eyes shining, awaiting the happiest day of her life. She is beautiful.

I wish I had known her. I feel that she and I would have had a wonderful, mother-son relationship. Maybe I wouldn't have felt alone my entire life. Maybe my father wouldn't have been so cold and distant. My we would have been a happy family, all of us, together.

I turn my attention to the lightning bolt pendant. It is about half an inch long and must have been carved out of oak wood. I imagine that I was once bright and clean, but now it has turned a darker brown color. I close my fingers over the pendant.

At least if I die, I'll finally get to meet my mother.

* * *

_**Writers for this chapter: Alexander Cole written by Doc95**_


	11. From Dust: District 10's Reaping

_A pair of sacrifices, missed by few,_

_Culled to stand in the bloody queue.  
_

_District 10's tributes walk weighed down by past and future._

* * *

**District 10 | The Reaping of Brystol Welles**

* * *

It's quiet.

The silence breaks me from my coma of sleep. It startles me, the absence of sound. I'm so used to the eerie moaning of cattle miles away, or the soft shuddering of Cooper's sleeping body warming my own. Instead I'm greeted by chilly nothingness.

My hands reach out and search the perimeter of the bed, but there's no sign of Cooper. The sheets are still warm though, which means he hasn't been gone for long.

I prop myself up on one elbow and run my fingers through my hair. My room is dimly lit by moonlight, letting me know that Zander opened the window. I don't know how long it is until the sun makes its debut, but I'm positive that going back to sleep is out of the question. After all, it _is_ the worst day of the year.

My breath comes out in a stream through my puckered lips, which makes a noise that's close to the snorts of horses. It's not an attractive sound, but it's a habit I can't seem to break. When I was younger I spent almost every day in my father's barns, where I would mimic the sounds they made. I haven't seen any of my mares in months.

I sigh quietly and kick my legs out of the nest of blankets that have cocooned around my body. As my toes touch the cold wooden floor, I hear a rustling outside the window and my body tenses. Every muscle in my being is frozen, other than my rapidly thrumming heart.

Peacekeepers are wandering around tonight, swarming like clusters of flies to make sure no child attempts to run into the nearby woods for an escape from tomorrow. Or today, rather. I don't know what time it is, but I'm positive it's past midnight.

A familiar face pops into view, and I gasp before I let myself relax. It'd be suspicious to anyone else, if I was dragging myself out of bed at this hour.

"Brys. Are you awake?" his voice is stern, with a touch of worry.

"No, Zander, I'm sleeping." I bite sarcastically, making sure to keep my voice low. I don't want to wake Grams up. "Is Cooper with you?"

At the sound of his name a black head hops up, just clearing the window. Then he disappears, too low for me to see him once more.

"Hey, buddy." I creep over to the window and scratch behind the Labrador's ear. His tail thumps the ground repeatedly, and the slacking of his jaw and tongue reveal his glee.

It's much more difficult to read Zander's emotions, especially in the limited light. His dark hair hangs over his eyes, which is his way of closing the curtains against the world. After all, the eyes are said to be the window to the soul. I haven't seen Zander's eyes since my parents' death.

His thin lips tilt down in the corners, but I recognize this feature. It's normal.

Every time I study his face too long, I regret it. Guilt wells up inside of me, seeing his struggles so clearly displayed on his features. If _I've_ taken a beating these last couple months, _he's_ been dunked in a volcano and dragged a mile across a bed of nails.

"Why are you awake?" I let my voice get so soft; it almost gets carried away by the wind.

"You really have to ask?" I imagine his eyebrow arching, but I can't see anything above his cheekbones. Sometimes I wonder how he can see.

The answer to his question would be 'no'. I don't have to ask. I'm sure ninety percent of Panem's children haven't gotten a wink of sleep tonight. It's a miracle I've embraced whatever unconsciousness came to me over the past few hours, without writhing in horror from nightmares. I get those bad dreams occasionally. Sometimes I hear my mother scolding me for what I'd done to her, sometimes it's my father holding his lifeless hand out to me as he's engulfed in flickering flames. Other times it's Zander and Grams going through the same pain repeatedly. Every dream has two similarities, though: They always involve fire, and they are always my fault.

"It's your last year." I clear my throat, pulling my mind back into the moment. My saying this is supposed to sound comforting, but it could also just be salt in the wound, reminding him he has to endure today to live the rest of his life.

"I know." The silence that follows is just as eerie as the silence that woke me up.

I clear my throat, breaking the quiet. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Almost six," He mutters. I know that we're both counting the hours in our heads.

Four. Four hours until my brother is free forever.

I decide to do the quick math in my head. Eight thousand, seven hundred and seventy hours until I am also free. Math has always been my strong suit in school, but right now it's only making me realize how much longer I have to suffer.

"You okay?" Zander shoos Cooper away and climbs through the window. I realize that my lack of a response is still hanging in the air.

"Do I look okay?" I snap. I don't mean to be rude, but he knows me well enough to know that my wit only hides my insecurity and fear. He's one of the _very_ limited people in my life that tolerates my attitude.

"No need to be worried." He places his hand on my shoulder, and I bite my lip as I look up at him. He's a few inches taller than me, even though I'm pretty tall myself.

He's right about not needing to be worried. We've never needed to take tesserae, never had to submit our names more than the minimal amount. But just because we are the deceased mayor's children doesn't ensure our safety. There's still that nagging in the back of my mind, taunting me about the number of names that _are_ swimming around in that bowl… Six.

There are six slips of paper with the name _Brystol Welles_ scrawled on them, and with chances like those I should be sound asleep, curled up in a tight comfortable ball next to Cooper. Instead I'm shaking, being pulled into my brother's arms, wrapping my own around his thick torso.

Zander is big and strong. Even if he was thrown into an arena with twenty-three other tributes, the odds would be in his favor. They might even be in mine, considering I'm not small or weak. But it all depends on the other tributes, how desperate they are to return home, how bloodthirsty they are for fame. A shudder runs through my body, and Zander pulls me closer. I bury my face in his shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut before tears threaten to make an appearance.

We stand like this, his chin balanced on the top of my head, until the first signs of sunlight begin to peak over the horizon. My room is lit up in shades of orange, everything reflecting the rising sun. I peel myself away from Zander's arms and stand in the light that streams through my window, staring out.

The view isn't something to brag about. We live on the edge of the trees, which are so scarce in District Ten. Most of them have been cut down so that the livestock have more room to… well, to moo to their heart's content. In this District, it seems as though the animals are more important than the humans.

Empty farmland stretches for miles and miles. The smell of manure never really leaves your nostrils, unless you hold your face underwater. I don't advise this.

Despite the dull atmosphere, this is my home. I would much rather be knee-deep in manure than be in a Capitol constructed arena. I am determined to stay home. I _will_ stay home.

"I'd better wake Grams." Zander gives me one last pat on the back before leaving my room. The moment he opens my bedroom door, Cooper takes his place beside me, blinking up at me happily. He has it easy, being a dog. So oblivious to what the rising sun of today means.

I pat him on the head before throwing on some new clothes and brushing my hair. After I'm presentable enough, I make my way down the hall to the source of the aroma of meat and eggs.

The kitchen is the one place where Grams seems truly alive. When she's on the porch or in her bedroom, there's a distant look in her eyes. You have to yell her name to get her attention, and even then you only have a fifty percent chance of her recognizing you.

Here, she is vivid and lively, bursting with personality and vigor. She practically dances around the room, tossing spices and peppers into a simmering pan.

"Good morning, Grams." I chime as happily as I can, although I sound as if I'm lacking conviction. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Mornings are so pretty. Good morning, Carolyn." Her voice is sing-songy, child-like. As usual, she calls me by my mother's name. She never really processed my parents' death. Half of the time, she thinks that I _am_ my mother. But neither Zander nor I have the heart to sit her down and explain it to her.

"Sausage?" I breathe deeply, adoring the smell. My mouth waters, and I find my stomach rumbling. Meat that hasn't gone rancid is a rarity in our District, even for my family. We always have enough; Zander and I inherited enough money to ensure a life of luxuries such as sausage and eggs. This was the only good produced from our orphaning.

"Yes, yes! Piggies for breakfast!" Grams sings. I smile solemnly at Zander, who is chewing on his bottom lip.

"Sounds good to me," He shrugs, lurching forward to help Grams scoop mounds of food onto two different plates.

Zander has to feed my grandmother, because her hands are incapable of wrapping around utensils. She opens her mouth as he scoops a spoonful into her mouth, and attempts to sing a song with her mouth full.

"Today," she swallows, a frown replacing her grin. "Today is a bad day."

Zander looks at me inquisitively, and I know that the question running through both of our minds is 'Does she know?'

"That's it. It's going to rain!" she breaks into another toothless grin, and a breath I hadn't realized I was holding escapes my lips in another horse whinny.

"It might," Zander attempts to feed her once more, but she bats his hand away with both of hers.

Suddenly, my appetite leaves me, and I push away my plate as well. My hunger is quickly replaced by nausea. My mind hops from one thing from the next until it lands on one haunting thought that I know will resonate in my mind until I'm safely back at home in my bed tonight. _What would Grams do without me and Zander?_

They'd probably deem her useless as both a worker and a guardian, and send her to the slaughterhouse with the cows. I've heard this rumor many times, since the infirm do nothing but take food from our District. It would make sense, if you were looking through the eyes of a heartless dictator of a worthless community.

Instead I see her through my own eyes, the eyes of her only granddaughter. I almost tear up when I think of her alone. Once she got out of the house at night, and we found her wandering around the pastures wailing about our government. We quickly silenced her and practically dragged her back to the house. It's too dangerous to be talking about things like that in public, even in the dead of night, but she doesn't know any better. Without us, she'd be more lost than a sheep without a shepherd.

Before I know it, it's time to be preparing for ten o'clock.

I retreat to my bedroom, my heart beating out of control. I try to calm myself down, but my heart rate and my lungs seem to be having a race.

I grip everything tighter than I need to: the fabric of my white dress, the handle of my hairbrush, my mother's mirror… everything seems to be turning my knuckles lighter with tension.

I stare at my reflection for a minute or two, practicing my 'I-don't-give-a-shit' face. When I'm satisfied with the outcome I set the mirror down lightly and take a deep breath. I look too pale; too feminine.

"You look pretty," I twirl around to face him. His hair still covers his face, but he's adorned in a semiformal button up shirt and ironed pants. He looks better than usual, which brings a small smile to my face. I'm almost positive it's the only smile in all of Panem today, not counting the outrageous grins of the Capitol people.

Zander offers me his arm, and I loop mine through the crook of his elbow.

Then begins the trek to town.

Grams isn't required to attend today; actually, the Peacekeepers prefer if we keep her under house arrest as often as possible. The last time she was in a large crowd of people, she went completely berserk and sunk her teeth into the nearest person's flesh. I'm sure she would've been punished, or worse, if she hadn't been the only guardian of both Zander and I. There are already too many orphans that are in need of governmental support in District Ten.

We arrive on the outskirts of town all too soon. The dirt road melts into cobblestones and asphalt, and every building is taller than two stories. It makes me feel smaller and more vulnerable, being so trapped between walls in every direction. I hate this feeling. In my opinion, civilization is overrated.

After all of the walls of brick and cement comes the even thicker wall of human adults. The crowd is overwhelming, and I find myself fighting to keep the nausea in my stomach.

This is where families wait. This is where, perhaps, one father and mother will watch their child stiffly take their place on stage, a cow being lead to the slaughterhouse. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Our population is too large to have everyone crammed into one simple roped-off area. Instead, the people that are excluded from the chances of being a tribute are kept separately, wrapping around the area for the less lucky adolescents.

After plowing through that crowd, we hit another wave of human beings. This crowd, however, is made up of the petrified, the horrified, and the dramatic. This crowd is the children.

They're all different shapes and sizes, all with different skin tones and levels of strength. The range of appearances, however, is surpassed by the varying emotions. Some children have masks of absolute terror, while others show no emotion to the point of looking bored. I hope that I am coming off as the latter.

Zander drops his arm from my grip, and I know that it's time for us to split up. My lungs threaten to stop working for a moment. I take such a deep breath that it hurts my chest.

"See you soon," He mutters reassuringly. His voice is almost inaudible above the sounds of the thousands surrounding us.

"I hope so," I hug him before searching for my age group. I'm sixteen years old, turning seventeen in a few days. The first day of the actual Games, to be exact. It's unfortunate, having a birthday so close to the Reaping. If I had just been born a week earlier, I would only have to face one more Reaping. Instead, I have to endure this one, as well as the ones for the next two years. That is, if I make it through today.

I can't help but be pessimistic in this situation. It's the only time of year in which even the most optimistic of people cannot be themselves. The Reaping turns normally sane, stable people into psychotic messes. A clear example of this is the girl lined up in front of me. She's the smartest girl at my school, but at the moment her high IQ is worthless. She's bawling her eyes out, quivering uncontrollably, and leaning on a nearby comforter to keep herself upright.

I feel a bit of pride in myself, being able to gather my emotions. It's not even taking that much effort. I'm surprised at my own level of self-control.

Somehow I've been pushed and shoved up to a table where Peacekeepers are drawing blood. I look away as the needle pierces my skin, but after two milliseconds I'm able to melt into the crowd of Sixteens once more. It's remarkable really, how they're able to systemize this event.

It takes about ten minutes after I arrive for the real events to begin. It leads with the anthem of Panem, followed by the over-played video of our country's history. It's sickening, how close to other festivities this day is. For every child from age twelve to eighteen, today is not a day to celebrate. At least not for the next half hour. After the names are drawn, I have the chance to finally let myself breathe at a normal pace.

I don't pay attention to the video. I've seen it at least thirty-two times before. I could probably recite every line of the excruciatingly drawn out presentation. Instead, I let my eyes wander over the many heads around me.

When we're all gathered in one place like this, it's really amazing how large our population is for having so much empty space. Out my bedroom window, I can see no other sign of humanity. Our own house is settled at least a mile from the nearest building. This is apparent by the condition of the shoes I'm currently standing in. They're scuffed up and covered in a layer of dust, but today is the first time I've ever actually worn them. After only an hour of putting them on my feet, I've broken them in fifty times over.

Yes, being able to walk is necessary in this District. Unless, of course, you're Duncan Banter.

I think seeing him stroll across the stage is the first time I've seen him do something involving any physical ability in years. Whenever he's out around town, he's always sitting on his horse, or being chauffeured around in his very own car. He makes me sick; not because of his wealth, not even because of the way he spends his wealth, but because of how he spends his _time._

This man, who doesn't care if his tributes make it home at all… He is the mentor for District Ten this year. It's ironic, really. Having a mentor that _will not_ mentor. I'll be surprised if he even takes notice of the two children that are Reaped this year, even gives them a single word of advice.

And then there's the escort, following the same footsteps as Duncan did, flaunting across the stage in an unashamed manner. Trevor Watson. Such a simple name for such an eccentric man.

As Trevor takes his place behind the microphone, I study his enlarged face on one of the projected images. He looks like a normal Capitol man, strange and pompous. But there's something else in his heterochromatic eyes. Something that even Duncan lacks. Instead of having vacancy in his different colored irises, like most Capitol-natives do, there's something soft and determined.

I don't have more time to gape at appearances, however, because the next thing I know Trevor's hand is swirling around inside of the giant glass bowl marked 'Female'. Anxiety begins to swell inside of me, but I manage to stuff it into the inky recesses of my mind.

It's as if everyone in the entire world is holding their breath, all eyes trained on those five fingers that dance through the paper slips.

I have to admit that I'm afraid during these moments. I'm afraid that it will be the small girl, clinging to her best friend in front of me. I'm afraid that it will be the one who sits next to me in class. I'm scared that it will be my elementary school bully, the one who used to yank the bows from my hair.

My fear for the others, however, seems to have been misplaced. The name that is called is Brystol Welles.

"Of course." It's like a punch in the gut. A stupid, ironic, really _hard _punch in the gut.

Everyone that recognizes me turns to stare at me so I immediately put on a small smirk, as if amused by this strange turn of events on my part. My feet move forward towards the stage without my permission, but that's alright. The longer I wait to step up the stairs, the more vulnerable I will look.

As I wander up the steps I try my best to look leisurely, relaxed, and completely unsurprised. I try to choose a pace of walking between a terrified sprint and a petrified stumble, both of which are common at Reapings.

My shoes echo off of the floor, the only sound in the area for a few awkwardly silent moments. When I reach my position, my arms cross over my chest but not too tightly. Every nerve in my body wants me to squeeze myself into a tiny ball and roll away, but instead I chew on the inside of my cheek and raise an eyebrow at Trevor, as if to ask, 'What the hell are you looking at?'.

"Onto the men, then!" His voice is all too cheery for this occasion.

His hand drops into the 'Male' bowl, his fingers imitating the movements he did through my own glass bowl.

This is when I let my eyes find Zander. He's in the back of the crowd, surrounded by other eighteen year old boys. He's staring at me, I think. His head is dipped down, his hair shielding his eyes, but his mouth is open in the way it does when he's shocked. My stomach churns, and I begin to think of what I'm going to say to him at our goodbye. But… what if he's chosen as well? What if we're forced into the arena together, the last two to survive, and one of us has to murder the other? What if he volunteers for the boy's spot, as an attempt to keep me safe? I begin to feel bile rising in my throat.

Then I remember I'm supposed to be keeping my calloused look on. I push Zander from my mind at the moment, and focus on Trevor.

Trevor. Focusing on Trevor. Only Trevor. Focus, Brys, Focus. Trev- "Styx Algal!"

The name of my decided competitor. The name of the boy whom I have to kill to survive. His name is Styx.

To my absolute glee Zander does not volunteer, and neither does anyone else.

I've never seen the boy who looks so utterly bored as he climbs the steps to stand opposite me. He pulls off careless and confident so easily, I'm afraid he's made my whole act _look_ like an act. I know it's immature and judgmental, but I already don't like this boy. I don't trust anyone who can appear amused at the sound of being sentenced to death. But wasn't that what I was just trying to pull off?

I catch his eyes, and he gives me a small, sharp nod. I refuse to nod back. I refuse to acknowledge him at all, except to size him up. I will absolutely refuse to become acquaintances with this Styx Algal boy.

"District Ten, these are your tributes for the 34th Hunger Games! May the odds be _ever _in your favor!" Trevor sings, the last part directed towards us two tributes.

I want to laugh out loud, scoff at the saying, make the entire legal system look idiotic, but instead I'm dragged backwards into the building behind me.

I've been in this building before. After all, my father was the Mayor not five months ago. I've been to so many parties here.

The irony continues as I'm tossed like a rag doll into a windowless room full of flamboyant furniture and plush colors. This is the same place that I was given a time out in when I was five years old. My mother locked me in this very room for hours on end, because I had 'accidentally' placed a custard-filled pastry on my father's dining chair. His formal attire from then on had a stain in the shape of a squashed turtle plastered onto his buttocks.

The memory brings a small smile to my face, but it disappears as the door to the room is flung open. I'm pulled into Zander's tight grip, failing at the simple task of breathing until he's let me go.

"Oh, God, Brystol, I'm so sorry, I don't know what I can do to get you out of this, but I swear I'll try my best." He gushes, panting through his words.

"It's fine, Zander." I say, reaching out and touching his cheek. He grabs my hand and holds it for a moment before letting it go, along with sobs that rack through his body. I hold him close to me, my heart shattering. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I laugh at this image. I should be the one losing my mind, gripping to my brother for dear life. Instead I'm nursing his fragile state, trying to coax his face from my shoulder.

"You've got to do this." He pulls away, cupping my face in both of his hands. Tears drip from his chin, splattering on my dress. "You've got to win, Brys."

"I'll try." I smile sadly, trying to calm him. It works a little, and his sobs reduce to shudders.

"Try." He whispers, snorting slightly. He knows what I know. They all try. Only one tries hard enough.

"Grams. You've got to take care of Grams. Keep her out of trouble." His emotions are starting to come off on me, but I know I can't cry. It's physically impossible at the moment.

"I'll try." His voice cracks, and he chuckles darkly. I pull him back into my arms, knowing our time is almost up.

"I love you, Zander." I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing myself to keep calm.

"I love you too, baby sister." He kisses my forehead before being ordered out by the sadistic Peacekeeper guarding my door.

I know that there will be no more visitors for me. Zander and Grams were technically all I had. With this thought, I wonder if I should even try, if there's a point to killing the others. They probably have families they want to return to, mothers and fathers. Zander can easily take care of Grams, and he never has to work for money. But I told him I would try. I will try to ruin other families, so that I may return to my own.

I wonder if Styx has a family to worry about. If his leaving will hurt anyone else. I wonder if he has friends that are rooting for his return, whereas I have a depressed brother and a psychotic grandmother.

I'm sure he's in the room opposite mine, just across the hall, and my theory is proved correct as I hear him yell. I wonder who his visitor is, who he has to raise his voice for.

The Peacekeepers come to get me soon, which means neither Styx nor I had many visitors.

Maybe we're a good pair for tributes, the two of us. Neither will be missed by many. Our deaths will be celebrated, as they are every year for each of the other dead tributes. We will make our little notch on history. We will take the spot of the innocent girl, the fearful boy, and do our very best to return home to this hot, dry desert of a District.

When I was younger, I went on a field trip with my school to the slaughterhouse. Our teacher told us that ninety percent of the cattle that are raised on our land are send to the Capitol for food.

"I'm just another cow." I mutter under my breath with a sly smile, "So… Bite me."

* * *

**District 10 | The Reaping of Styx Algal**

* * *

Gold wisps of sunlight filter through the window as I groggily open an eye. Reaping Day means nothing to me. It's a tick on a calendar, one step closer on a march of vivacious futility. It's only the poor saps who wring their hands over such trivial concerns as "life and death" that worry about today.

Such emotional entanglements are for the weak.

The air's warm as I lift my head up from the stone-hard mattress in this hovel of a home. It's dusty air, to be sure – it _always_ is dusty in District 10. The dust pervades every inch of every space, seeping between building foundations, blankets, even _eyelids_. It's impossible to avoid the stuff, but those who have grown up with it have come to accept it as a part of life. I don't mind, really. Why worry about something as small as _dust_? What does it do to me – or better yet, for me? Worthless.

I blink and look about the half-lit room I call my own in this house; it's small and insufficient. Creaking wooden planks climb like vines up the wall to a roof that needed replacement years ago. There're very few _things_ here; I have no need for such _things_. Only my stack of clothes and a pail of stagnant, dust-coated water catch my eye. I should look nice today, dress decently – _will_, rather than should. I have little choice in the matter, as it's customary for everyone to do so. Besides, I can milk such appearance later on after the Reaping for what I need.

And should I get Reaped? No concern, then. Adapt and thrive. It's the way of nature.

The money from winning doesn't entice me in the slightest. It's the _knowledge_ that would pay off from winning the Hunger Games, although I do well on my own now. In such a stratified society we live in, physical goods mean nothing. Very few in District 10 own much besides the landowners on their ranches, locked away in their ivory towers as 99% of the district starves. I don't care for my fellow man, but even _I_ can see that humanity has failed when that's the case. No other species destroys its own so – no other burns out its niche like a virus. Humanity is an invasive species of the highest order.

My feet hit the wooden floor, creaking as I wrap a pair of threadbare woolen socks about my callused limbs. A pair of tan trousers that match the color of everything else in the dusty world follow. They're thick and can withstand damage – something critical for thriving here on the prairie. A pair of thick workman boots I shifted off a stiff and a basic white shirt finishes my morning attire. I'll change when I come back.

Why do I come back? Why bother? I should move out of this shithole. The thought sounds even more appealing as I stride into the "guest" room, hearing my mother shifting in her sleep elsewhere in the house. She's useless, a drunk and a prostitute. She finds indulgence in money, even when it's not very much. Only she could be so stupid as to delight in being _underpaid_ for her rancid work.

I don't know if most teens consider their parents to be burdens, but I sure do. My father left me a long time ago; he's dead in a ditch somewhere, rotting for who-knows-how-long. My mother gave birth to me and my dead sister, who was even more of a burden.

Stupid git, bumbling about as if she were three years old despite her being only two years younger than me. Her name was Lyla; people I know in town say she was pretty with her cow-like brown eyes, albeit stupid. She died a year ago due in part to my mother's idiocy. I was out engaging in my usual business when my mother returned, drunk as a skunk, and proceeded to beat the ever-loving hell out of Lyla, inflicting nasty internal injuries.

No big deal to me. Big deal to her, since she died a couple days later.

All it did was reinforce what I already knew: This species must be some sort of natural error, unequivocally flawed in every way, from the physical to the psychological. I have yet to see a steer or pig or sheep get drunk and lay themselves open for every Peacekeeper to get some, finishing it off by slamming their young into pink mush. Well, that's humanity.

"Bummer, huh?" I whisper to myself as I scoop up a bag, slinging it over my shoulder and opening the door to the street. "You were born unlucky. Boo-hoo."

Boo-hoo. Dad runs and dies and Mom kills your idiot sister. Boo-hoo.

The street's empty for five-thirty in the morning. That's good for me; I can scavenge and deal without concerns. The Peacekeepers will be patrolling the outskirts of the district today, so I can operate with a little more leniency. District 10's _huge_, covering a vast amount of prairie that's needed for cattle and horse-raising. That's the rancher concern, and that's why they run the economy here on the plains – they're the landholders.

I don't live in the Ranching Ward, however; I don't even live in the Shepherding Ward. No, I live on the edge of the Dairy Ward, since that's "technically" where my mother works (although she spends considerably more time whoring.) It's bad, although a slight bit of respect nicer than the Slaughterhouse Ward. That's the poorest section of District 10; it holds the residential quarters of all the butchers and meatpackers, the last end of the supply chain that runs from the animal husbandry workers all the way down to the killing. Ironically, it's the people who process the stuff for Capitol consumption who get kicked around the most. There's something funny about that; it's like the Capitol is asking for salmonella outbreaks.

The Slaughterhouse Ward may be a dump, but it is a _lucrative_ dump for someone like me who trades in information and basic commodities. I'm not focused on monetary rewards, no; since my waste of a mother has never given half a hump about me, I've eked out my own living. I trade what I learn – and I learn a lot – and what I can scavenge around town for further information and useful stuff such as food and clothing. It's what I need to do to survive, and frankly, I'm quite good at it.

It's not glamorous, but I'm certainly not the only kid who does this stuff. The butchers have words for our kind: Gutter Rat. Broker. Middleman. Scabber.

It's all the same. If I committed to making money instead of commodities, I'd probably be richer than them.

The Peacekeepers in District 10 don't care. We barely impact their lives, and the place is too big to focus on one or two residential wards when there are far greater things to police. They're concerned with keeping the economy and industry in line, and that focuses heavily on the husbandry workers and shepherds. To me, those are the "feudal serfs" – they're the "employees" of the ranchers, and are supposedly in the upper half of District 10's lifestyle. It doesn't look that way to me, however. They may have more _stuff_ than those of us who slum about as scavengers, but they certainly don't live with anywhere near the freedom of movement. They're the ones who end up swinging in the town square if they slip up.

Me? No, if I get in trouble, all I need to do is slip a Peacekeeper a little something. Maybe it's a tidbit of information that will earn them praise from their superiors, or maybe it's something special. Either way, it's not a huge concern.

Undoubtedly a few hopeless wrecks have drank themselves to death last night, so I need to scrum about the Dairy and Slaughterhouse Wards before 8 to check for corpses. I have to be at the town square at 10 for the Reaping, so I have four hours of flexible business to attend to before that. That's more than enough to learn some things, find some useful stuff, and negotiate. Profitable morning, if I do say so myself. It beats those scummy people crying tears over how their "babies" have a miniscule chance of being selected for death.

As I kick aside a rock in the empty, dusty street, letting the warmth of the early-morning sun hit my face, I have to wonder why people give so much of a shit about death. It's a natural thing; an inevitable, cosmic force. It's a road we all have to take. Why worry if it comes now or when you're old and struggling to even breathe? Once again, most humans are idiotically emotional creatures.

I am in _luck_ this morning! Some dumb husbandry worker – by the looks of his shirt – came into the Slaughterhouse Ward during the night and offed himself. He's in a dirt gutter at the side of the road, and the Peacekeepers haven't picked him up yet. I'll have to work fast – the Peacekeepers might not give a shit about what we do, but some of the moral crusaders who live around here might care.

Still, five minutes is enough for me to make my move, strip the corpse of everything I want, and then hightail it. It's a nice haul; the man's shirt alone will reap me a decent reward. It's actual cotton, which is crazy as hell to see around this ward. I leave the pants but take his boots, his cap, the little money he had on him, and something curious – a small pink ribbon. What the hell? I'm confused enough of why he has money on him still, but the ribbon is weird. It's almost…

_Bam!_

_Lyla's dancing around the room as I come home, tossing my school sack on the ground. I don't care for school, but the knowledge is useful. What the hell is my sister doing? Brain-dead idiot_.

"_Styx, Styx!" she laughs as she plays with some figment of her imagination. "Come dance!"_

_It's her usual babble. If I thought I was born unlucky, something horrific cursed her. She doesn't hold a lick of intelligence – or even sanity – in that addled, rotten brain of hers._

"_Beat it," I spit on the floor. "I have things to do."_

"_Nooo," Lyla coos, completely misunderstanding my intent. Her ponytail bobbles around her head as she dances, swinging with the pink ribbon she's tied (poorly) to keep it in place. "Come play! Play with me!"_

"_Look," I round on her, irate. "I don't care what your pea-sized brain thinks, but you have royally pissed me off. I don't want to play with you and whatever the hell you think is there."_

_She stops, looking at me with something between fear and confusion. It's a face I've only seen a few times – usually when dealing with our mother. _

"_Are you gonna run away like daddy?" she asks._

_What?_

"_Are you leaving? Is that big train gonna take you away?"_

_The hell is she talking about?_

"_Don't leave me with her, Styx," she pleads, her cow eyes wide and round. "She hurts me. Please."_

"_What do you want?" I demand. "What are you trying to even say?"_

"_Don't leave me! Don't make me get hurt…"_

I snap back to the dusty street and the cooling stiff I robbed. The heck was that? I remember the first half…but Lyla _never_ said anything like the second part of that. How was I slipping into these stupid thoughts, anyway?

_Your mind's playing tricks on you_, I think. _Don't let it obfuscate your grip on today_.

I agree. Time to get back to work.

I stuff the ribbon in my sack and hurl the thing over my shoulder, shrugging and moving on. Can't get lost in the past…no, certainly not. Lyla never meant anything to me, anyway. Why am I even thinking about her, besides the faint memory of a ribbon?

Before the next hour's out, I've scrapped up a decent haul from people's leftovers. The stuff from the stiff; rotting bread that an idiot threw out into the street – it might be poisonous, but it'll lure delicious rats, and someone will pay for that – an old, long piece of leather; a raw, threadbare rag; a dead cat; and bits of scrap metal. I've done well for this short time, and the Slaughterhouse Ward has rewarded me for my diligence. Time to make good.

Since District 10's so large, it's impossible for any policing force of Peacekeepers to do much to hinder behind-the-scenes action. A considerable black market has thus grown to service what everyone in the Dairy and Slaughterhouse Wards need, and I'm a regular supplier. It's good being at the top of the supply chain; although I may be a Gutter Rat, I provide a useful service. That's supply and demand at work.

The black market isn't stupid, so it operates in a decentralized web. Sticking everything in one market would be sure to attract attention, and instead I make rounds, passing by the homes and locales of people who I know will partake in my wares. First up is the heart of the infection.

The primary slaughterhouse in District 10 is colloquially referred to as the Guillotine. It's packed to the brim with workers usually, but today the foremen have suspended work until two – after the Reaping is over. I can make good, however; two of my familiars are already loitering against the giant, steel-sided square building, picking prairie grass out of their teeth and spitting on the dusty ground. On the right stands a tall, lanky man of around thirty-three with a mane of blonde hair. Named Boone, he's one of the people I've come to rely on as a commercial workhorse. If anyone's a middle man, it's him: He'll snap up stuff like the rotting bread I've found, using it to procure even more resources and selling those on to the merchants. He's a smart businessman I could probably learn a lot from.

The red-haired, well-built man to his left is fairly new to me; I've only met him once. He's named Crockett, works in the dairy mill; his intact clothes show that he's wealthier than the Slaughterhouse Ward denizens. Good news for me; Crockett will likely pick up the stuff I pinched off the stiff.

"Already had a Broker come this way wit' tootin' cheese," Boone spits on the ground as I approach, wiping his mouth with his frayed sleeve. "I ain't buyin' no hoity-toity shit if ya' found'it, Styx."

Many people have a local accent in District 10 – I can tell it's an accent since the Peacekeepers don't have it – but Boone's is ridiculous. It's often hard to follow him through a finished sentence.

"I'm no elitist," I spit back. It's important to act tough around guys like Boone; it's all they respond to. "I got _actual_ stuff you can use. Can't do nothing with cheese but wipe your ass with it."

"Mmm," Boone nods. "It be the best ass-wipe I ever done, though. Beats my finger."

Crockett grunts as I dump the contents of my sack out onto the ground. Nobody cares about the dust and its effect on the goods; we all might as well eat dust, anyway. It gets into everyone's food, even that of the Peacekeepers and ranchers.

"That'a bread?" Boone pushes the rotting loaf with his shoe. _Good_ – he's gone for it. "How mucha want fer'that?"

Here comes the haggling, and strangely enough, it was school that taught me how to handle this part. Boone abides by the classic case of an _indifference curve_ – once you figure out what he wants, you only need to figure out what he _has_, and how much he values that. Get those down and you can price your own goods considerably in your favor. I've done well with my regulars, but Boone may be the easiest. He's not too smart.

I don't pretend to be _intelligent_ myself, but I know how to understand people's motivations. Boone isn't different from anyone else. The tough ones – particularly the ones who try to flaunt their muscles like some sort of evolutionary calling card - are always the easiest to run rings around and cheat. It's like being paid to outsmart steers.

Boone doesn't value what he perceives as "elitist." Some of that comes in the form of food he gets from other Gutter Rats – and I'll gladly profit.

"Pinched any milk off the dairy plants?" I ask him, knowing he wouldn't spare a turd for something as "elitist" as milk. It's not as if Boone has a family. The thought is laughable. "I'll give it you for a half-gallon."

He grunts in displeasure, but I can see the gears churning in his admittedly-small brain. Stealing a half-gallon of milk off of the dairy plants is easy work for anyone with a minute of experience in theft and smuggling. Considering the volume that District 10 puts out per year, that's child's play – and it's an amount I can convert into _serious_ goods with the merchants, who would rather commit ritual suicide than steal. Damn moral knights.

"Where'd you get that shirt?" Crockett asks, investigating the stiff's clothing with his eyes. "I'll toss in for that and the boots."

"That's premium. Ranch-hand stuff," I go for the hard-sell. "It'll go for four loaves of bread, two pairs of pants, some fine stuff, anything in between that."

Boone sniggers at "fine stuff." Figures.

"A'ite," Crockett sighs, pulling something out of his pocket. "Gotta hand off the good stuff."

I almost wet myself at what he produces. It's a knife – and a _damn_ good one. As lax as the Peacekeepers are, they would blow their stacks at finding weapons, which makes them extremely valuable commodities on the market. Where the hell did Crockett get this – and is he really that desperate as to trade it for the stiff's clothes?

Jeez. It's a good morning.

"For all this?" I ask, trying my best to appear suspicious and containing my giddiness. "I'll take the knife…but toss in some food and I'll throw in the rag and the leather. You can make some clothes off that, too. Rag can clothe an infant. New parents will buy that."

It's amazing where a bit of salesmanship and playing to emotions can pay you. Crockett considers my point and pulls out a small container from his other pocket, laying it on the ground and pushing his spoils towards him with his foot.

Holy hell, that's alcohol. Did he kill somebody to get this stuff?

"Happy to do business," I grunt, appearing disgruntled as I excitedly scoop up my winnings and wonder why he values the clothes so much. "Either of you know where I can sell the dead cat?"

"Try th' apothecary," Boone grunts as he inspects the rotting bread, picking at the mold. "They'all use the oil, y'see."

"I wouldn't try there," Crockett says somewhat cryptically. "They've had a little…run of bad luck."

Oh. I guess that's where the alcohol came from. Clever man, selling stolen goods; however, beggars can't be choosers. I'll gladly sell that knife and the alcohol and earn what's mine.

By nine, I've done extremely well for a mere three-and-a-half hours. The knife turns into two loaves of bread, preserving yeast, four lengths of cloth, and some extra money from one of the ranchers. They're all paranoid about security and will willingly trade with us Gutter Rats if we can string up stuff that makes them feel "safe." I don't tell them that safety is a lie conjured up to make them relaxed; that would be bad business. The alcohol and cat go to a notorious drunk in the Dairy Ward for a pair of boots that he doesn't need anymore. I can't sell the scrap metal, but I'll figure something out during my afternoon run. Hell, someone can make a new knife out of that, I guess.

I'll turn the ribbon in to one of the merchant families this afternoon who have a kid who makes it through the Reaping. Maybe the bakers; they have a cute fourteen year-old girl they dote on. That makes more money, which I can go use for even _more_ bartering.

It's a virtuous cycle, alright – and the opportunistic succeed.

I toss the sack onto the floor of my house when I get back. My mother's farting around and clutching her head – the idiot's hungover _again_. It's a constant struggle for her I guess, but it's still pathetic.

"Ain't you supposed to be gone from here by now?" she groans at my general direction. "Christ."

I've never figured out what "Christ" means, but seeing that most of the poor toss the word out as an insult or disgruntled remark, I've attributed it to the same things. "Maybe if we're both lucky, you'll die before some other kid gets Reaped today," I retort.

"Or maybe you will. That'd save me a spite of trouble," she spits at the floor. "Fuckin' useless. Maybe I could trade you fer Lyla."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you beat her to death," I chuckle. Dumb cow.

My mother _hrumphs_ and walks away, leaving me to change. I don't spend much time here, simply slipping into a slightly nicer shirt and a pair of respectable brown pants. Even I know when it's time to be presentable.

I don't spend much time thinking about the Reaping; I have more important things. If I'm Reaped, whatever. I take tesserae, but just for myself. I couldn't care less about my mother, so my name's in a decent amount of times. Plenty of other kids, however, have it far worse. They actually have parents and siblings who count on them, a notion I openly mock.

_Now_ the streets are packed. Figures. I weave my way through traffic, pacing over the avenues I've walked a million times. Some kids walk in groups towards the town square, holding each other and crying. I have some people I'd call "friends," sure…but I certainly wouldn't be doing _that_. I have no need for anyone I refer to as friends on a day like this, anyway.

Besides, my best friends are the ones who pay me. They're the people like Boone; the ones who keep me going. That's far more profitable than some emotional support piece with no quantifiable result.

Peacekeepers have erected giant screens across the dusty streets that lead into town; it's from here that most of the adults and workers of the District will watch. They need nearly the entire square for us, the Reapable-crowd. District 10's just too big to cram into one small area like they do in the small districts every year. Already, groups of parents and other concerned relatives have begun to cloister in groups. They're the ones who have stakes in this game.

Me, I go about my business.

The Capitol attendants checking everyone in don't seem to be having a good day. As I make my way through the legions of kids, the attendant who takes my record of attendance grabs my finger roughly, smashing her blood-drawing needle into it with a painful lurch.

_Asshole_, I think.

I'm checked in quickly and move through the crowd, shuffling into the seventeen year-old area. One kid I'm friendly enough with is there; he's the son of two dairy workers, named Fannin. He's actually tolerable…most of the time.

"Think it's your year?" Fannin seems unconcerned as we clap hands. "Can't say I'm really sweating it out."

"Same," I say succinctly. "Not really a big deal. If I get Reaped, cool. If not, I have stuff to do."

Fannin laughs, the morning sun shining off his blonde hair. He's a better-looking guy than I, no doubt, even if his tall, lanky frame lacks the build of my upper body and shoulders. Still, he'd probably stand a good chance in the Games. We both would; neither of us are the weepy type. I'd give myself the edge, of course; I'm willing to bet I've got the physical advantage on Fannin, and certainly the adaptability one. Can he outthink me? He's a smart guy…more _intelligent_ than me, but I'm not sure he has the imaginative edge necessary to outwit the brawny volunteer idiots from Districts 2 and 1.

The Capitol escort, Trevor, is the same tool they keep bringing back. He's peppy and his words convey all sorts of _enthusiasm!_ and _vigor!_ in this year's class. He's way too optimistic, gassing on about how he's got the _utmost confidence_ in District 10's chance of winning. I wish he'd shut up; neither Fannin nor I are really paying attention much.

A video they play every year goes on next, spewing weak rhetoric about a "motherless child" and "one man and women" – standard propaganda. I'm not sure _why_ they waste their money on this kind of thing, but hey; that's why I'm not president.

I take the time to look over at District 10's latest victor. Duncan Banter looks bored as all get out; he's the son of two husbandry workers and notoriously looks down at both the wealthy and the poor. If there's a District 10 middle class, Duncan was it. Now, of course, he has more money than he knows what to do with, so he instead has transformed into a wasteful hedonist. He controls his famiy's attention, supposedly, but no one else really cares for him. Duncan only won because of his year's crop of _extremely stupid_ tributes. I certainly wouldn't call him an ideal mentor; his final opponent was stupid enough to _walk into a bear cave_ without even checking out the surroundings. With that kind of competition, who _wouldn't_ win?

That's not skill. That's blind luck stemmed from rampant idiocy.

Finally we get to the juicy part. The escort goes for the girls first, digging his pudgy, soft hand around the glass Reaping bowl before finally digging out the name of one Brystol Welles. She's an attractive girl, confident and seemingly with her thoughts elsewhere as she climbs the steps of the stage. I've never seen her before; looks like she could be a rancher's daughter.

I size her up before Trevor gets to the guys. She's tall – probably just an inch shorter than me. Medium-colored hair, greenish eyes – I think – and an athletic build make her a darn good looker.

Still, I don't really spend much time thinking. I'm considering my afternoon when Trevor digs his hand around the Reaping bowl once more, pulling out the second name. It's some guy named Styx.

Oh. That's me.

If you watch the Reapings every year, you might think all tributes not from Districts 1, 2, or 4 collapse into piles of tears and depression. Frankly, I'm not really all that bugged by this setback. If nothing else, it means I don't have anything to do this afternoon.

Beside me, Fannin doesn't look too concerned either. We both have come to accept things – when you're relatively poor, life's hurdles aren't ever too big. It's the wealthy and weak who typically spend their time worrying about issues like this.

I stride forward, bored and ready for this to be over with. Hell. I don't want to shake _Trevor_'s hand. How's this for Capitol excess – the guy has two different colored irises, one green, the other brown. Really? Is that necessary?

"Come on up, come on up," he says cheerfully as I climb the steps with ease. _Hedonist and hedonist – that's my mentorship crew_. Fuckin' swell.

Brystol is considerably more interesting. I give her a curt nod as I take my place on the stage; frankly, if there's anyone here worth talking to, she seems to be it. Already I'm planning the next move, my mind hurtling forward into the strategic battleground. Idiotic tributes die due to a lack of planning and a lack of tactical skill, neither things I suffer from. First things first: making myself socially attractive.

Why's that important? It's massively important: I'm not stupid enough to think I'll need to rely on sponsorship gifts, but they'd be nice. Already I've done a decent job setting an angle without even thinking about it: confidence, even the cold type I usually convey, isn't something the crowds normally expect from people from the outlying districts. That's a nice perk.

Of course, confidence is the _least_ of my concerns.

Brystol and I are shuffled through the massive, stone façade of the Hall of Justice behind us. This time is supposedly delegated for people saying good-bye to us, but I already know I'll have no takers. Nobody cares about a Gutter Rat unless they're engaging in business. My failure of a mother is the last thing I'd want to see anyway.

The solid-wood paneling and scarlet silk carpets make the waiting room a nice wait. I kick my legs across one another, reclining against the couch I'm positioned on and wait out the hour. It'll be a _long_ hour.

As it turns out, I do have a visitor. It's not who I think.

Out of the blue my head starts to hurt. It's a fuzzy thing, almost dizzying as I lean back further into the couch. It's when I open my eyes that I see things have changed.

Hanging from the ceiling, her limbs contorted behind her like hooks, is Lyla.

She's not the stupid sister I've always known, however. Her eyes are blacked out, things of horror that stare at me with an awful emptiness. Her mouth hangs open like a gaping maw, spewing unsaid words of hate upon me. Her skin has turned bleached white, the shade of a corpse. Lyla's hair hangs down in a frazzled mess, white and frayed.

When she finally speaks, her words are straight from the mouth of madness: "_You may hide your fear behind your walls of lies, Styx, but being Reaped terrifies you, doesn't it? All the bodies and blood every year…you know what happens, no matter how hard you try to forget it."_

_Gahhh_. I find myself compelled to reply: "Get out…Lyla's dead. _Get _out!"

She laughs, a horrible thing laced with acid: "_I see the cracks in your armor, Styx. They'll break when the time's right, send you straight to a bloody death. And when they do…I'll be expecting you."_

* * *

_**Writers for this chapter: Brystol Welles written by Ambs15 | Styx Algal written by 13ASB**_


	12. Bound: District 11's Reaping

_Son and daughter, bound by love and wrought by fate,_

_Sent on a path of fear, horror, and hate._

_District 11's tributes have little time before the ties that bind are split._

* * *

**District 11 | The Reaping of Rowan Clemons**

* * *

I squirm around in my bed, Alma totally spread out across the small bed, leaving me no room. I don't mind she needs her sleep; it's her fourth reaping. There's a _lot_ of tesserae under her name. Of course I have double, if not triple the average for girl my age; 19 slips with my name carelessly written on.

I snuggle closer to Alma, my only sister and only sibling in the reaping. I also have four older brothers; they all work - and two; Cliff, who is 22, and Colom, who is 20, are married. Rogue still lives with us; he turned 19 not long ago. The sibling I was always closes with is Afton. He was always another Dad to me, and I was the only one that could make them smile after a day at work.

In fact, I am the only one who could make tons of people smile. Afton tells me it's because I find the good in everything; my smile's contagious, my laughs infectious, and my upbeat attitude's hard to miss. I think people actually are happy all the time and just need a reminder to bring it out.

I get around two more hours of sleep before I feel my arm being shaken: "Rowan, we have to get ready; we're meeting up with Silvio and Forest to go to the main square!" Alma squeaks, rushing around our small room.

I drag myself out of bed and walk by our small, round mirror. I see a tiny girl with olive skin and wide, deep, chocolate-brown eyes that have a "stinker twinkle" in them, as Afton would say. I'm almost skin-and-bones, standing a mere 3'11" and weighing 49 pounds – but there're few tall kids in District 11. My curly black hair's a total disaster, leaving me to sigh and start racking through it with my fingers.

I quickly get more awake and start humming an upbeat tune until I am more dancing than getting ready.

"What are you doing?! Rooooowaaaan!" Alma drags out my name in her high-pitched, whiny voice. "You have to get dressed sweetness," she scolds and rolls her eyes as I giggle.

She pulls out one of her old reaping outfits – a purple sun dress - which is much too big for me. I twirl in the dress, gushing, "Wow, this is so beautiful; I am a princess."

Alma rolls her eyes, "I wouldn't go that far; it's old and dirty. It is a lovely color on you though. Besides, you don't like fancy clothes, remember? You'd rather get muddy with Forest," She sighs unhappily.

"Oh, but If I have to get dressed up, might as well make the best of it. Besides, we will come back and play with Silvio and Forest and be all messy then," I remind her as she groans.

After a small quarrel, my curls stay loose and not in a bun like Alma wants. I'm bouncing and humming a little nursery song as Alma tells me it's time to go; we don't have time to eat though, and I could hear her stomach growling. I feel bad; she eats the same as me, yet she's so much bigger.

I'm getting a little uncomfortable in this dress on the walk to Forest's. I can't cartwheel or run, and I like doing those things when I'm nervous. We walk hand in hand up to their house, and knock on the door forever before Silvio answered it.

"Hey guys. What are you doing here?" Silvio asks us. I sneak under his arm and plant myself on my couch.

"You told us to come over at 12:30 so we could go over to the Reaping together, remember?" Alma reminds him. He nods his head as if he did remember. "You forgot didn't you?"

"Yeah. I have kind of been busy lately. Yesterday I found out that Forest has to start officially working now," He says, and I smile sadly. It will be great they will have another source of income; maybe they can take less tesserae. Maybe he will be put in the same section as me; we can hop along the tops of the trees and pick fruit together. That would make the job so much more fun. I could tell him about all of my songs…

I decide to slip away after my pondering, and find Forest in battle against his tie - a fight he's losing. I break down and double over with laughter, and he jumps and lands on his rear. The look on his face falls between extreme embarrassment and rage. After a second, Forest joins in with my laughter and helps me up. I tie his tie the way I used to help Afton, Cliff, Colom, and Rogue get ready for their reaping.

I sit on his bed and he crawls next to me. Though 2 years younger, he towers over me at more than 5' in height. I snuggle into his side and he wraps his arm around me. There's nothing romantic about us; we're just comfortable with each other. I've always thought of him as my twin brother. One to comfort, and one to comfort you..

"Everything will be fine, when you start working you go to the very tips of the branches before they sway and launch yourself over to the next tree. I can show you so you'll fall less, that'll help a lot - then you can get more breaks! Look at it this way, your brother will never be faster than you at getaways now. I beat Alma _all_ the time," I giggle and see him roll his eyes.

"Of course that's what you think about, you're the reminder. You wouldn't be worried about going to the main square at all," He snorts and I shrug.

I leave because he still needs to get his polo on, brushing against Silvio on my way down. I don't think he notices though; I'm so small compared to him. I walk down stairs and sit back on the couch, waiting before the boys walk down together meet us at the bottom. Alma bends down and whispers "Look who's trying to impress us."

I whisper back "Yea, to you it's Mr. good-looking, do-no-wrong and his brother" I start giggling.

"We should get going," Silvio says as the clock reads 1:20. Forest and I go skipping out of the house first; Alma and Silvio following behind us.

Suddenly, Alma stops Silvio and runs her fingers through my hair: "Better." Forest makes gaging noises and I flick his ear. We continue walking until we get to entrance to the square, where the main Reaping will take place. There is a line for each age - age 12 being all the way down to the left, and 18 being all the way down to the right.

Alma bends down and smoothens my dress, handing me a stone with a hole at the top and a string around through it. Alma tugs the string carefully over my curls. People in District 11 give this to a child at their first Reaping; your mother and father then paint a small symbol on it representing you when (if) you make it through. Mine shows a million tiny silly faces all over the rock. I tuck it into my dress.

"Don't worry we've been called to the main square before," She smiles and kisses the top of my head.

"I guess this means after the Reaping we'll be having a guy party at our house, our brothers, Silvio, and Forest. We have to stick together we're out numbered!" I joke. She hugs me close and pushes me in line by some girls I chat up. Who knows, you can make best friends anywhere after all.

I am whisked through the line and stand by a bunch of other girls. They all are clutching each other as some 12 year-olds just in front are crying. "Guys you'll be fine. It's a billion to one you will be picked, and even if you do at your age and our age if you have bigger family they might volunteer. All family members love each other," I say to no one in particular. They still look shaken up, so I sing - a common sung song in District 11; one mothers sing it to their babies during the harvest. No one can rest during the harvest, not even new parents. Before anyone can truly calm down, however, the Reaping begins.

The mayor takes the stage along with our mentor, Scarlet Rose, and our escort, Vivian Black. The mayor who introduces the other two: I find it completely important; although we hear these same things every year, it doesn't mean we can't find a new meaning. The mayor asks Vivian Black to come up and do her usual speech after the short introductions.

"Well hello, District 11. What a lovely day for a Reaping, just splendid!" she starts. Like most other Capitol citizens, she fascinates me. She looks so colorful standing up there at about 5'1".

She is wearing a tight, heart-shaped dress that barely reaches her knees, with the top in cheetah print and the bottom in pink. She wears large hoop earrings and black heels that don't make her any taller than she already is. I never have understood why Capitol people always dress so different. We should all dress in between what we do - in browns and earth tones - and their color-happy outfits. Half of Vivian's hair is shaved off, only leaving one side of ginger hair. She looks so happy, and the color reflects it. I don't get why people hate them so much.

She goes on to talk about the usual Hunger Games history and rules; how the rebellions started and so on. The Capitol movie starts and we all listen carefully what the film has to say. I think I can even repeat every word back this year. We all draw silent and I fidget - I don't like people when they're quiet and sad. Before I know it, Vivian makes her way over to the girl's glass bowl.

"Ladies first!" she chants. I watch her reach her hand into the bowl and dig around carefully; looking for the perfect little slip of paper. I can see all the girls - including me - take one deep breath in as Vivian grabs the one slip and zips it out of the bowl. When she gets back to the microphone, she gently unravels the tape from the piece of paper. I pray quickly it's not Alma as she announces the name.

"Rowan Clemons," she announces. At first I am so happy it's not Alma that I forget to be sad about me. I quickly jump up to the stage and stand next to Vivian, who only is a bit taller than me. I smile out to the crowd reassuringly.

"Well congratulations Rowan! Any volunteers?" Everyone turns their heads looking for a hand to shoot up, but nobody does. I turn my head to Alma, who has now sunk down and is hiding behind the people in front of her. I turn back to the general crowd, opening my arms out and smiling; a District 11 sign symbolizing you care for someone. I don't want anyone to volunteer..

"None…thought so. Well Rowan, now let's see who will be accompanying you!" Vivian walks in the opposite direction to the glass bowl that contains the name of almost every Reaping-age boy in District 11. I hope Silvio stays safe. His name is in there - I think - 34 times. Vivian doesn't take as long to pick the slip as she did for the girls.

"Silvio Sato."

Oh no. Well, at least we have each other.

Then I see Forest. "Silvio! You can't go!" he escapes from behind the barbwire enclosed area and is now running down the aisle towards him. Before he can reach Silvio, Peacekeepers grab his skinny arms and take him away. As he is being escorted away, I can still faintly here Silvio's name still being called. I take a look and it's a surprise to see Alma standing in the middle of the aisle staring straight ahead. Her lips begin to move and I can't make it out.

Silvio stands at the bottom of the steps as he stops himself from stumbling up the steps. Like they have done already, the Peacekeepers that are still behind give him a rough push, causing him to trip on the first step. I can hear some of the kids in the audience laugh, causing me to let out a frustrated huff.

As Silvio climbs on the stage, I instantly run to him and give him a hug. _Oh Silvio, it will be okay. It is amazing that if we both had to go into the Hunger Games, at least we're together. I hope you know I'll help you all I can; we can do this together!_

I feel him stiffen under my hug - maybe he needs time. Maybe he thinks the Careers will get us. _Oh Silvio, the Careers are people too; they just need extra smiles and love. They never got any; it's always work harder, fight more. We can get them to be happy again - I think._

Still he doesn't give me a hug, and Vivian gets impatient. "May you two tributes please come over here now?" she asks us irritatingly. Silvio almost has to drag me to the center of the stage as I trade my hug for a tight grip onto his arm. "Now let's say a final congrats to our two tributes!" The citizens are mainly silent apart from the clapping from some stupid boy in my grade. All of a sudden, each and every person in District 11 does exactly what I did when I hopped onto the stage.

Grateful tears prick my eyes as, Vivian and two Peacekeepers push us back and guide both Silvio and I into two separate rooms, where we will say our goodbyes.

I sit down on a couch that I barley take up a fourth of. First, my whole family piles in besides Afton and Alma, who requested separate times. I let out a quite sigh of relief; I get more time with them.

My Mom and Dad sit on either side of me and wrap and arm around me, making it seem like one giant long hug. Cliff, Colom, and Rogue sit on the floor, making a tight small circle.

Rogue and Mom's eyes are red from crying. I can tell Cliff and Colom want to be strong for me, and I have never ever seen my Dad cry. "What you guys look like you've seen a ghost," I tease.

This sends Rogue and Mom over the edge. "Y-y-you will be. You w-w-will be a gh-ghost. Dead," Rogue cries and Cliff hits him on the back of the head.

"Shut up!" He yells.

"I think that's offensive; I mean do I look as sickly and pale as a ghost?" I demand. Everyone looks shocked and I smile, which everyone returns. I even get a watery one from my Mom.

"Oh honey," my Mom chocks and strokes my hair, pulling me into her lap.

"We will miss your smiles," Cliff says.

"We will miss your constant sing-songing," Colom smiles.

"We will miss your spunky happy attitude." Rogue chocks.

"We will miss your genuine love," Dad smiles.

"We will just miss you," My mom cries.

"We're proud of you no matter what happens we'll know you'll stay you." Cliff says, and we all hug. As the Peacekeepers return, my Mom has to be dragged out, crying hysterically.

Alma walks in next, sitting on the coach "Look baby, I am so sorry. I was going to volunteer, I was. I just forgot to move my lips. I want to do it over. I swear I will take your place. Look I'm going to talk to Silvio he'll help you-"

I cut her off. "Oh my gosh, can anybody talk faster than you right now? You're faster than the birds in the sky. Besides I didn't_ want _you to volunteer. I want you safe. This isn't so bad. The Capitol is nice; they let us get to know the tributes first. We can be friends and all protect each other," I smile

She hugs me: "I want you to win. You're my little sister; of course I want you to win. My best friend will have to die, but with his dyeing breath I will make him swear to save you Rowan."

I shake my head "We can all win, I have a plan."

She gets angry: "Even _you_ can't be that naive!" She screams. "Only one can win."

I get mad too, and put my hands on my hips: "You don't know the rules can change; you say the Games change people. Well, I think it's time the people change the game."

I give her a hug, and she kisses me on the check. Then she leaves by the hands of the Peacekeepers. Next to come in are three girls from my school. They're all sobbing hard and engulf me in their hugs. Truth be told I have many friends, but these three work with me. They're the ones by me when we're in pain after working for hours straight. Pain grows people together; we are closer than most of my other friends besides Forest.

"You have two more visitors," a gruff Peacekeeper grunts and pulls the girls off. They leave clinging to each other crying.

Next Forest bursts in. He walks over to me, his eyes red; it's hard to remember he's younger than me. I always feel like we really are twins.

I open my arms to him and he laughs. "You're so small I feel like a little kid hugging you, instead of the other way around," He mumbles, wiping his eyes. "It's not fair, and I shouldn't be the one crying."

"We're like twins, _and_ your older brother is going; you have more to deal with then me," I sigh, already dreading this conversation. I snuggle into his side and he drapes his arm around me like this morning. "Remember well always be best friends, Forest." I giggle. "Best friends…twins for life…and stuff."

He looks at me and shakes his head: "I'll never ever understand a girl; or maybe it's just you."

We both get quite for a minute, locking eyes with each other before saying in unison: "It's just me." We laugh, and I hug him close and smile. He always smells like fresh pines.

"You know, you need to know this before I go; I think you always smell like very good fresh pine," I say seriously.

He rolls his eyes. "I can already feel the pity for the Gamesmaker that has to try and understand your mind."

Forest departs as the Peacekeeper returns, not wishing to be forced out. My last visitor is Afton. I waste no time in running to him, and he scoops me up and cradles me to his chest like when I was little. I place one of my hands on his face to calm him down.

"Listen Rowan, you can do this. You're special; we need you back in District 11. You bring the life, happiness; you're the only one that can make me smile. You're needed Rowan, without happiness and love, people give up on life," He looks down at me and meets my eyes. "Look, I think you can trust Silvio, and win over the sponsors." He chokes up and whimpers, actually feeling quite sad for the first time.

"Let's go," the same peacekeeper calls.

"I love you Rowan," Afton concludes.

The Peacekeeper takes me out of his arms and I squirm away from his touch. As the door shuts I scream "I love you too, Afton!"

I sigh and sit down; all I want is to be by someone right now. Someone happy and cheerful, but I'll make do with Silvio. I bang on the door until a Peacekeeper comes in; I beg and whine until they take me to Silvio.

I walk into a similar room and crawl onto Silvio's lap. I look up and am met with a look of pure determination.

We can do this – we're a great team. Mr. Serious and Little Miss Fun; a salt and pepper pair that's best together.

"Are you ready?" I ask him. "Hey look at it this way, now we know everyone else is safe for a year. We're like heroes, we're keeping them safe. Me and you we are strong, not like the Careers, but with love, Silvio." All Silvio does in reply is a simple shrug of his shoulders. Suddenly, Vivian comes tramping into the room.

"Come on guys! We've got a full day tomorrow!" She requests us to come with her. This will be a lot different from home.

* * *

**District 11 | The Reaping of Silvio Sato**

* * *

I toss and turn in my broken-down bed, unable to sleep. Every kid between the ages 12-18 will be doing this exact thing with the knowledge that the Reaping is tomorrow. I'm tempted to actually get up and maybe go out and work so I have enough money for the "after-Reaping" celebration. With a small pinch of energy that I have in me, I pick my body up and make my way over to my mom's clock. Her clock is the only thing we had left in the house that belonged to her.

When I see that the clock reads 2:31 a.m., I decide to go check up on Forest, since I was already up and it's way too early to go out. I peak through a small crack in his door; he is peacefully sleeping. He doesn't have anything to worry about: He's only 11. Suddenly I watch as his chest starts pumping up and down and he begins to breathe heavily. I rush into his room and start shaking him; he wakes with a slight scream.

"Are you okay?" I ask him. He shakes his head and tries to avoid eye contact with me.

"Just had a nightmare. I'll go back to sleep I guess," I grab his pillow off the ground and throw it at him. He begins to laugh and throws it back at me - brotherly love. Ever since our dad died, I've had to partially raise him and act like his dad. It's been hard for me, but I could tell it was even harder for him. He never knew our father; he died the day Forest was born.

Finally I throw the pillow back at him and make a run for the door. Before I can shut the door completely, I hear his small voice once again.

"Silvio? W-What if you get reaped? O-Or Alma? Or Row-" he begins to say before I cut him off.

"Don't be thinking like that. Everything will be fine, I promise. Now go back to sleep, we've got a big day ahead of us." Without letting him respond to my last statement, I walk out of the room and shut the door behind me. Following my own instructions, I decide that it would be best for me to go back to bed.

As I attempt to go to sleep, the questions that Forest asked me flow back through my head: '_What if you get reaped? Or Alma? Or Rowan?' _If Alma or Rowan got reaped, I don't know what I would do. If Rowan, at the age of 13 got reaped, hopefully someone would be brave enough to volunteer for her. But Alma; my best friend, my girlfriend. The fact that she is my same age means that she is less likely to get a volunteer. Before I knew it, my eyes begin to glue shut and the whole question is out of my head.

"Silvio, can you go get Forest? Tell him it's time for dinner," my mom asks me as she lays on the ripped coach. She hasn't been the same since my father died. I respond with a simple nod and go check on my brother, who is up in his room playing with sticks. It seems as though he's trying to build a tower of them.

"It's time for dinner," I tell him. He jumps around in surprise, but instead of popping up and coming with me downstairs, he crosses his arms and begins to pout.

"I don't want to! Mom isn't even going to sit with us…so what's the point! It's like she doesn't even love us anymore," he begins to argue with me. I am getting irritated with him; he knows she is like this because of what happened to our father.

"She loves us. It was just tragic what happened to dad. Now let's go, after dinner maybe we can go over and play at Rowan's."

He still stands there with a disappointed expression planted on his face: "Not until you tell me what actually happened to dad. I know that everything you have told me is a lie!" he complains some more. Why is he acting this way? My mom always told me not to tell him the real reason he's gone, because he has been "too young". But now it's affecting his everyday life.

"If I tell you, you can't tell mom - and then you _have_ to come down to dinner. Deal?" He nods his head at my offer. "Okay, so it all started the day you were born. He couldn't be here when mom gave birth to you because that morning, he was sent away to District 12. Mom didn't want him to go, but the Peacekeepers threatened to kill him if he didn't. He told mom and I that he would be back as soon as possible." When I feel a tear poke my eye I stop. I was supposed to be his role model; he needed to grow up and be strong. Before I can begin to start once again, he cuts in.

"H-he didn't come back did he?" he lowers his head. I scoot over towards him and pat his back.

"We heard from the head Peacekeeper that he had been killed. Mom went into a coma and stayed in her room for the following month or so. I had to look after you when you were not even a month old. But look how well I did, you growing up to be a brave, strong boy. Now let's go, Mom might be getting worried." I help him off the ground and we make our way downstairs. When we reach the last step he stops and takes a deep breath in.

"Everything will be fine. Don't worry."

He follows me down the final stair to see a surprise: Our mom actually sitting at the table waiting for us. She asks us why we took so long, but I just tell her that I was helping Forest finish up his tower.

We eat in virtual silence. There is the occasion question that comes out of my mom's mouth such as, 'how was school?' or 'how are Rowan and Alma doing?' We answer the simple 'good'. Then it goes back to us eating the apples and other crops I bought this morning. Finally, the silence is broken when Forest blurts an unnecessary question.

"Do you love us, mom?" Her reaction isn't how I expected it to be. I thought she would automatically start balling and run out of the room, but instead she throws me an upset grin as if she knew I had something to do with this question being brought up.

"Of course, Sweetie! I will al-" she begins to object before Forest cuts her off rudely.

"Then why don't you take care of us? Why do you just sit in your bed crying all day? He's gone! He's never coming back!" He screams across the table.

"_Forest_!" I yell back at him. What has gotten into him? Mom was right; he was apparently still too young to tell him. What have I done? "Go to your room, now!" I should, but he refuses to do as I say. "_Now_!" I yell even louder. He stomps up the steps, and I can hear him sniffling on his way up.

"I'm sor-" my mom starts. I can't even look her in the eyes without getting emotional; either in sadness or anger.

"Just - no," I say. She gets up from her chair and goes back to lie on the couch. "Don't worry! I guess I'll clean up again…" I whisper so she can't hear the remarks I'm making. I'm 16! I'm not supposed to be doing this. As I'm washing the dishes, I hear knocking on our door. Before I could yell 'I got it!' I hear the screech of my mom lifting herself off the couch.

I totally forget that someone was even at the door to start with, until I've finished washing the dishes. I slowly trot into the living room to see my mom not lying on the couch as I suspected she would be.

"Mom?" I curiously ask. I glance around the whole house, but there are no signs of her. Before I could go make sure Forest was okay, I notice that the door is still wide open. I put on a pair of my dad's old snow boots and run outside. I run for about 15 minutes straight; my fingers turn into icicles. As I am about to give up and hope she just went on a walk to the bakery or the fields, I can see spots of red soaked into the snow.

I follow the spots until I see her - my mom. Or rather, her fragile body lying paralyzed in the snow. I run as fast as I can to her side, only to see that her skin is marked with red and bloody marks. There is no doubt that she has been whipped; far more than once. I put my frozen ears against her chest and listen for a simple heartbeat. Nothing. Suddenly, I hear the crunching of snow from behind me. I turn my head to see Forest walking in just socks my way.

"S-Silvio? W-Who's that?"

_Knock, Knock!_

I wake up with a scare. Who would be here this early? As I make my way to the door, I realize it's 12:30. The reaping is scheduled for 2:00 today, but we have to be there by 1:30.

We got an invitation this year. In District 11, they don't want everyone all together to give away the total population. So normally we stand in two side squares and watch it happen live. They pre pick so they know who to invite to the main square. Both our families - mine and Alma's - got an invitation for the main square this year. None of us have the relief of knowing that we're safe.

It's okay to be sent there; I was twice before, for my first reaping, and my 4th reaping and I wasn't picked: they just need bystanders. The whole family has to go, though, so Forest will be watching from the sidelines of the main square, and Rowan won't be by him; this is her second reaping.

I yawn, then before I get the door, I yell to Forest to get up. Even though he wasn't participating in the reaping, he still had to be there.

_Knock, Knock!_

I pull on some actual clothes so whoever is at the door won't have to see me in only my boxers. As I open up the door, I quickly pull a shirt over my head. Luckily, I'm happy to see the faces that are greeting me at this time in the day. Alma is the first to come forward as she kisses my cheek.

"Hey guys. What are you doing here?" I ask both of them. Rowan sneaks under my arm and plants herself on my couch.

"You told us to come over at 12:30 so we could go over to the Reaping together, remember?" Alma reminds me. Oh crap, I totally forgot about that. I nod my head as if I did remember. "You forgot didn't you?" Apparently she could tell that the nod of my head was false.

"Yeah. I've kind of been busy lately. Yesterday I found out that Forest has to start officially working now." I ask her if she wants anything to eat but she refuses because she claims she had a biscuit before she left. "So how as Rowan been?" I ask Alma, knowing that last night was probably rough.

"She was all perky until about five minutes before we came over here. I don't blame her," I can see tears begin to drip down her face. I grab her by her waist and pull her into me, holding her in my arms firmly.

"Everything will be fine, I promise. I'll make sure everybody will be okay, and then we can come back to my house after and celebrate. I have a little money left over from last week's earnings, so I could maybe go out and get some sweet potatoes and buns," I release her from my grip and I stare into her deep brown eyes.

"Really?" I answer in the affirmative as I slowly take my finger and drag it across her soft cheeks, removing the one tear that was running down it. "Actually a biscuit would be nice…" she adds in.

"Of course; one biscuit coming up!" I run into the kitchen, grab the last biscuit and bring it back to her in less than ten seconds. "Here you are, Your Majesty." She chuckles as she removes the biscuit from my hand. Only Alma - and sometimes Forest and Rowan - can get me to joke like that.

"Thank you," she replies. I quickly run up stairs and put some nice clothes on. Every year, I wear the exact same thing to the Reaping. Some nice gray pants, with a pale blue button down shirt; it's the same thing that my father is wearing in the only picture we have left of him. Before I head back downstairs, I quickly check up on Forest, who has been in his room for a very long time now. When I open the door, I see him struggling to get his new polo over his head. I begin to laugh at him as I make my way into his room.

"Need some help buddy?" I can see his head nod from underneath his shirt. I try pulling his head through the neck hole, but that doesn't seem to work well. Then I decide to unbutton some of the buttons on the front of his shirt. I try pulling his head through again, but this time his frustrated face comes out. "You've got a big head, don't you," I comment. He glares at me, threatening me to continue.

We walk down the stairs together and the girls meet us at the bottom. Rowan is giggling; I don't know how that girl can giggle, it's the Reaping day after all. Just then - and I don't know why - I can't help laughing with her. Next thing I know, we're all laughing together.

"We should get going." I had to stop the laughing when the clock read 1:20. Forest and Rowan go skipping out of the house first; Alma and I just follow behind them. Suddenly, Alma stops me and runs her fingers through my hair.

"Better." We continue walking until we get to entrance to the square where the main reaping will take place. There is a line for each age, age 12 being all the way down to the left and 18 being all the way down to the right. I watch as Alma says her goodbyes to Rowan who runs to meet up with her "friends" in her line.

"Now go stand over there, this will be over before you know it. Remember, don't talk to anyone." I lean down and give Forest a big hug and push him on his way. Alma and I meet back up and we make our way to our designated line. It feels like less than a second before I am in front of the line and the Peacekeeper is asking for my finger.

The prick of the needle only hurts for a bit as she forces my finger onto a piece of paper. She gives me the 'okay' and I slowly walk forward, waiting for Alma to get the 'okay' as well. I give her one last hug and wish her good luck. I watch her walk over to her section for sixteen year-old girls, but it's not long before a peacekeeper is shoving me over to my area.

Being the tallest for my age, I feel awkward standing next to all the other guys my age. I have a couple friends, but they're down a ways, or in the other squares. Every once in a while I can sense that the two guys standing next to me are staring at me. Trying to ignore them, I glare over at the section of parents and look down to see Forest just standing there. It's hard for me to imagine that he'll be in this next year.

After about fifteen minutes of uncomfortably standing, the mayor finally takes the stage along with our mentor Scarlet Rose and our escort Vivian Black. The first to approach the microphone  
is the mayor who introduces the other two. I find it completely pointless, because we hear these same things every year. Then the mayor asks Vivian Black to come up and do her usual speech.

"Well, hello, District 11. What a lovely day for a Reaping, just splendid!" she starts. Like most other capital citizens she annoys me. She just looks so strange standing up there at about 5'1". I never have understood why Capitol people always have to look so unusual. She doesn't even look like a real person with the amount of makeup smudged across her face. She just looks pathetic standing up there as she goes on to talk about the usual Hunger Games history and rules.

As she blabbers on and the Capitol's movie begins to play, I glance over at Alma, who is standing just as I am. She doesn't have many friends, just like me. Then I move my eyes over to Rowan, who seems to be antsy and wanting to talk to all her friends, and cheer them up, not one for ever being sad. Before I know it, Vivian is making her way over to the girl's glass bowl.

"Ladies first!" she chants. I can see all the girls in unison take one really big deep breath in, as Vivian grabs the one slip and pulls it out of the bowl. I close my eyes as tight as possible, as she announces the name.

"Rowan Clemon!" No. That can't be! I automatically turn my head to Alma, who is standing frozen. Her face has dropped with shock, and I can barely see a tear prick her eye. Is she going to volunteer? I want to yell to her _Volunteer! She's your sister!_ But as shocked as I am, I can't say anything as well. I can't even watch as small, innocent Rowan nervously runs up to the stage. As she stands up there next to Vivian, she reminds me of a small toothpick.

"Well, congratulations Rowan! Any volunteers…none…thought so. Well Rowan, now let's see who will be accompanying you!" Vivian walks in the opposite direction to the boy's bowl.

My name is in there I think…34 times?

Next year will have to put my name in a lot more times, because there is no way I will let Forest take any tesserae. Out of my peripheral vision I can Alma lift herself back up, tears still flowing through her bloodshot eyes. Vivian doesn't take as long to pick the slip as she did for the girls, but to me, it's the longest ten seconds of my life.

"Silvio Sato." What? What did she say? My vision goes blurry and everyone around me begins to stare up at me. "Silvio? Come on up!" When I am 100% sure my name was the one called, I slowly begin to make my way to the center aisle leading to the stage. As I walk up, my legs begin to shake, causing me trip on up. Suddenly, I hear my name being called in a small but powerful scream.

Forest.

"Silvio! You can't go!" he escapes from behind the barbed wire-enclosed area and is now running down the aisle towards me. Before he can reach me, Peacekeepers grab his skinny arms and take him away. As he is being escorted away, I can still faintly hear my name still being called. I take one more look back, and it's a surprise to see Alma standing in the middle of the aisle staring back at me. Her lips begin to move and I can make out, "I'll handle it." Then she hesitates before opening her mouth again but all I see is "I-" before the peacekeeper shoves my head back forward.

I stand at the bottom of the steps as I delay myself from stumbling up the steps. Like they have done already, the Peacekeepers that are still behind give me a rough push, causing me to trip on the first step. I can hear some of the kids in the audience laugh, but I still force myself up the remaining steps.

As I take my first hesitant step onto the stage, I feel arms instantly curl around me. I want so badly to return the squeeze, but my body still numb in shock; not just from my Reaping but Rowan's as well, and what they did to my brother. Would they hurt him? Though I don't return the hug, nothing causes Rowan to rip away from me; her arms stay permanently wrapped around mine until Vivian gets impatient.

"May you two tributes please come over here now?" she asks us irritatingly. I almost have to drag Rowan to the center of the stage, as she is still holding a tight grip onto my arm. "Now let's say a final congrats to our two tributes!" The citizens are mainly silent apart from the clapping from some stupid boy in my grade. In a domino effect, each and every person in district eleven lifts their arms up – like Rowan had done as she'd taken the stage.

Before I can make any kind of reaction, Vivian and two Peacekeepers push us back and guide both Rowan and I into two separate rooms where we will say our goodbyes. Luckily for me, I only have two people to say goodbye to: Forest and Alma. Rowan on the other hand, has her numerous amount of siblings and her parents, and maybe some of her friends. It's less than five minutes before I hear a low voice, and Forest comes barging into my room. He runs straight into my arms and, out of anger, he begins to punch my leg.

"Why you!? Why Rowan! You said everything was going to be fine!" he shouts. I did promise him. Crap. Now what?

"Okay, I don't know how long I have with you so I don't want to spend this time fighting. Now when I'm gone, I'm gonna see if I can get Alma to watch you. You need to behave, and she might say something about having to work; listen to her. I promise, I will try my hardest to get home safety, but if I don't get home, I promise it will be Rowan."

By the time I finish with my speech, he has stopped punching me. I want to cry so badly, but I can't. I am the only person Forest had left he can call family, and there's about a 4% chance I can win.

"Just stay safe. Use your skills that nobody knows about; it's the perfect time! Remember, don't trust everyone," he says.

Am I actually taking survival advice from an eleven year-old? I guess I am, because he was the only one that really understood me; knows things about me that nobody knows: "I will."

I give him one last hug before the Peacekeepers come and grab him from me. He screams and tries to rustle himself out of their grip, but he fails and the door slams shut behind them. Suddenly, someone I didn't really know walks into my room. "Who are you?" I ask him. I guess he looked somewhat familiar, but how? By the way he was built up; I could easily tell this guy was older than me, and ineligible to be Reaped.

"I'm Rowan's older brother, Afton. I need you to get a grip and listen," He begins. I invite him to sit down next to me, but he denies my offer. He looks intimidating as he takes one big, deep breath in and starts again.

"You've got to _make_ Rowan win," He spits out. "She's only thirteen; she is just an amazing girl and deserves better than this! I know you want to win as well, but there's like no chance anyway. You can get her through it. She makes people happy; she gets this whole town more willing to be here. She keeps people from acting up so there's less Peacekeeper involvement. She can win over sponsors. I know she can, her smile even melts my heart." A tear slowly slips down his face. "If she's alive, we'll keep Forest alive too, I can promise that. She is so oblivious, and naïve; keep it like that."

"I have every intention on having her win. I will do _everything_ I can to make sure she lives. Ever since she was Reaped, I knew that there was no way she was going to die in there. If I die, though, remind Forest I love him."

He nods his head at my request and just escorts himself out of the room. Well, he seemed nice. Any other unexpected guests who were going to talk to me? Then a Peacekeeper pops his head into my room and says this is my last guest and I only have three minutes. He pushes the most beautiful girl into the room.

Alma.

"Oh Silvio. I-I don't know how. Why? I can't! I just can-" She starts but I pull her into my chest and tell her to take deep breaths and calm herself. Tears are flowing out of her like rain on an April morning.

"I am going to miss you so much. And I will promise you I will do whatever it takes to make sure that your sister gets home safe," I release her from my grip and stare into her eyes. "Keep Forest safe. If I don't live, I promised him you would be his new home." All she does after I say this is shake her head. I thought we were friends? Well more than friends, family even.

"You will live. Silvio, I want YOU to be the one that comes home. You're the nicest, sweetest, smartest, most caring person I have ever met in my life. I don't know if I will ever find another you….ever. Yeah, Rowan is only thirteen, but she was Reaped for a reason, and I have plenty other brothers and sisters. And Forest needs you." My face drops in shock for the third time today. She wants ME to win? She didn't care about her sister?

"B-but she's your younger sister! There is no way you can like me better than her…she loves you. And what about everyone else in your family? They want her to live too!" I begin to raise my voice. She moves her body closer to mine and stares deep down into my eyes.

"I love you Silvio," She steps onto her toes and presses her lips gently onto mine. The kiss contains passion beyond anything I've ever known, and there's was no way I'm ever going to let her out of my arms. I finally realize that this girl that has been my friend for almost my whole life, has truly been my love. I can't imagine life without her, as she probably feels the same as me; hence why she asked me to win instead of Rowan.

"I love you too," I bring her in for one last hug. I softly begin to whisper in her ear. "I promise. But if it happens not to be me, it will be Rowan." She nods her head at the deal I have made with her. We spend the last couple seconds left together in each other's arms. It only feels like a second before the Peacekeeper comes in to grab Alma.

"At least try. Rowan can get you sponsors; be friend her until the end. Let others take her then. Just try, please!" These are the last words that come out of her mouth before the door shuts furiously behind the Peacekeeper. I desperately need someone to come and get me, because I couldn't stop a million thoughts from storming through my brain.

How could I only find out right now that Alma loved me? She still believes that I am capable of winning. But how could she not volunteer?! I'm not just going to let a thirteen year-old that I have known her whole life die just so I can live. That would be the most selfish thing I could ever do. But what about Forest? He wouldn't have an official family, and would Alma's family _really_ take him in and make him feel like family? My emotions are uncontrollable and unknown to me. Luckily my thoughts shift when the peacekeepers let Rowan into my room before they come for me.

She enters and cuddles on my lap. Now there's no way that I can let Rowan die, but I promised Alma. What am I going to do? I look down at Rowan and almost begin to cry at the sight her curly black hair and her chocolate-brown eyes. Her eyes still sparkle with trust, and twinkle with her flare for mischief. Even through the goodbyes, she still holds her warm smile. Afton was right about a lot.

"Are you ready?" she asks me. I shake my head. "Hey, look at it this way, now we know everyone else is safe for a year. We're like heroes, we're keeping them safe. Me and you; we're strong. Not like the Careers, but with love, Silvio." I didn't know what to say so I shrug my shoulders. Suddenly, Vivian comes tramping into my room.

"Come on guys! We've got a full day tomorrow!" she requests us to come with her. I'm in for a long trip.

* * *

_**Writers for this chapter: Rowan Clemons written by HAPPY KID 21 | Silvio Sato written by maggiemoo1113**_


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